


Choice, Change and Principles

by estelraca



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Established Relationship, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 16:26:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/pseuds/estelraca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is happy with his relationship with Enjolras, knowing that to Enjolras he is always first and foremost Grantaire rather than a consurge.  Becoming pregnant means he has choices to make, though, as society normally strips away all rights from pregnant omegas.  The changes in his own life are only compounded by growing social unrest as the Amis and their allies push for reform against a steadily more conservative government.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Strength of Desire

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is set in an alternate universe, roughly at the turn of the nineteenth to the twentieth century, though differing abilities (like smelling hormonal changes) and a different religion have meant some technology is earlier and some later in development than it should be. It's been posted on the kink meme in response to the prompt for "Enjolras/Grantaire, Grantaire is Enjolras' pregnant omega, and Enjolras is a protective babydaddy". It deals mainly with themes of identity and oppression, and my very kind betas have convinced me to get a backbone and post it under my penname, too. I hope others enjoy the story.
> 
> Chapter one has consensual sex; chapter eight (the last one) has threats of torture and attempted rape.
> 
> *hides*

_Part One: The Strength of Desire_

"You're sure you want this?"

They're the first words that Enjolras says to him, Grantaire's first indication that Enjolras has arrived, and Grantaire practically jumps out of his skin as he spins around to face the unexpected voice, all his of nerves stretched taut by the unfamiliar energy burning through him.

Enjolras is standing in the open doorway, a hand on each side of the door, his arm muscles tense. His blue eyes—sky blue, sea blue, _fire_ blue, Grantaire can't seem to decide on a color as the light from the bedroom window shifts and slithers over Enjolras' face with the slow glide of the clouds outside.

It's hard to think clearly. There was something he was trying to consider.

Right. Enjolras' eyes, fire-bright and blazing, are watching his every move. Enjolras' whole body is _tense_ , his thin, sleek muscles all standing at attention as he holds himself in the door, and Grantaire can _smell_ him.

Enjolras smells great. He smells _perfect_ , like chocolate and heat and a hint of something spicy, everything Grantaire could ever want, and Grantaire finds himself moving from the open door of the bedroom toward Enjolras.

"Don't." Enjolras' voice is a hoarse whisper, and he rears back, though he doesn't retreat, seeming to hold himself in place in the doorway with his tense arms. "Not until you say you want this."

Grantaire understands, now, why the old name for _omega_ is Consurge, awake one, because he is suddenly awake and aware of every movement of Enjolras' body, every variation in Enjolras' tone, every shift in his scent as Enjolras seems to both strain toward him and away from him.

Swallowing, Grantaire manages to stop his feet and find his voice. If he doesn't, there's a chance Enjolras might retreat, and that would drive him absolutely _insane_. "I want this."

"Really?" Enjolras' voice drops just slightly lower. "Even with the risks?"

"A ten percent change I'll become pregnant. I _know_." Grantaire practically hisses the words, heat kindling ever-higher in his stomach as he stares at Enjolras but doesn't move toward him. "We talked about it when I went off my medications. Besides, alpha, it's not like I'm quite in a _rational_ frame of mind right now."

" _Conscia_." Aware one, those who could smell fertility in Consurges and responded with a heightened sexuality of their own, and Grantaire _knows_ the word but it's not been in common use for centuries though oh heavens does Enjolras' voice sound _amazing_ on it.

Enjolras' voice always sounds amazing, a light tenor despite his being an alpha—conscia—whatever he is, and Grantaire wants to hear Enjolras speaking as Enjolras claims him.

A low whine works its way out of Grantaire's throat, and he takes a half-step toward the door.

Enjolras draws a long, slow breath, his nostrils flaring. "If I come in, Grantaire, I don't know if I'll be able to control myself."

"You're controlling yourself _too_ well." Grantaire's own voice has fallen to a low growl. "We both agreed to this, Enjolras, and I am really, _desperately_ hungry for you, so if you could come in and _do your job_ , conscia—"

Somehow Enjolras uses the same motion to both close the door and launch himself at Grantaire. It's a beautiful motion, Enjolras' muscles all working together fluidly, that almost-inhuman grace that Grantaire has admired in Enjolras from the moment he first saw the man somehow even more heightened than usual. Grantaire meets him halfway, and somehow he doesn't seem quite as clumsy and awkward as he usually is, one hand finding a purchase in Enjolras' hair, the other wrapping around Enjolras' waist as Enjolras bears them to the floor.

Grantaire planned to have them go to the bedroom.

He planned to make sure that Enjolras enjoyed it as much as he did.

All plans disappear in a roaring fire of _want_ and _need_ as Enjolras' scent washes over him, though, and it's all he can do to not simply rip Enjolras' clothes from his body. He's not sure Enjolras' as gentle with his clothes as he is with Enjolras', but he doesn't really care, wriggling clear of the confining fabric so that more of his body can press itself up against Enjolras.

Enjolras is fire.

It's always been true metaphorically, but now it feels true literally, too, like Grantaire's holding a brand against his skin, like he's claiming the sun, like he's flying away with a phoenix, and the heat is _glorious_. The heat is everything he's ever wanted and more, and he can't touch Enjolras enough.

It's not the first time they've had sex. In the two years of their relationship they've slept together off and on, and Grantaire has enjoyed it well enough, but the medication that prevents his heats—prevents _this_ , prevents these glorious senses and sensations, that makes him a neuter rather than a piece of property in the eyes of the law—has colored all their sexual interactions.

Not now, though. Now his body is aware. Now his body is _ready_ , and he can smell it, knows that Enjolras can smell it, can feel the slickness of his readiness as he waits for Enjolras to fill him.

Enjolras holds him close, holds him tight, nips lightly along his neck, and Grantaire can feel Enjolras' erection pressing hard against his naked thigh.

"I love you, Grantaire." The words are a whisper against his ear, a breath of pure promise.

"I adore you." It's truth, the absolute truth, and it rolls off his tongue in the safety and security of the heat, but it makes Enjolras pause, his body stiffening just slightly. Whimpering, wrapping his arms around Enjolras, Grantaire allows other words to spill forth, hoping that the right ones will come. "I adore you and what you stand for. I love you. I love your work. I love what we have. I love _this_. I want this. I want our child, if it happens. I love what you've made me, the person I am with you, and I _want this_."

That is the crux of the matter, the heart of the conversations they've had over the last two months that Grantaire can only half-remember now as heat fogs his thoughts. Does Grantaire understand what he's asking? Does Grantaire really know the possible consequences? Enjolras is quite happy to do whatever Grantaire wants, believes that Grantaire has every right to enjoy the full range of experiences that being omega— _consurge_ , he can't use the old words when Enjolras is right here, atop him, driving every sense he has into overdrive—gives him.

If he becomes pregnant, though, the rest of the world will view him differently.

If he becomes pregnant, he will go from neuter and low-class to true _omega_ and Enjolras' property in the eye of the world.

Not in Enjolras' eyes, never in Enjolras' eyes or the eyes of their friends who work with him to change things for the better, but in the eyes of the world, and Enjolras would not take what scraps of right to self-determination Grantaire has from him without being sure Grantaire wants it.

Wrapping his legs around Enjolras' slim hips, Grantaire takes Enjolras' head between both his hands and stares up into blue eyes that burn with a fire to match his own. "I love you, Enjolras. And I know what I'm doing. And I want this."

Enjolras nods, once, and lowers his head slowly to press a chaste kiss to Grantaire's lips.

There is nothing chaste about what follows.

Enjolras' mouth travels every inch of Grantaire's neck, licking, sucking, nipping.

Enjolras' hands slide over Grantaire's sides, and rather than tickle as it has before it builds a bonfire in Grantaire's guts, a clarion call, an aching emptiness, and Grantaire is grinding against Enjolras before he consciously decides to.

Until finally, after far too long, Enjolras shifts his hips, positioning his penis at Grantaire's entrance, and thrusts in with one smooth stroke.

Grantaire is babbling, a rush of oaths and declarations of love and begging for _more_ , please more, he needs to feel all of Enjolras, to claim all of Enjolras.

Enjolras' words are less intelligible, his pants half-growls, but there is one word in his rambling that Grantaire hears and loves though he knows Enjolras will likely apologize for it later.

_Mine._

Enjolras declares Grantaire _his_ , over and over, a rhythm that their bodies align with, and Grantaire couldn't be happier.

They climax together, for the first time ever, and Grantaire holds Enjolras tight to him as silence descends on their apartment.

He can think again, more clearly than he has since his heat started this morning and he called Enjolras to his house. Not completely clearly, not free of the drive to mate, but better than it had been, sated by the feel of Enjolras and his seed, and Grantaire gives a low, breathless chuckle.

Enjolras levers himself up enough to look into Grantaire's eyes, tugging slightly on his swollen cock now lodged firmly inside Grantaire. "What?"

"That was… that was amazing. I haven't understood what Musichetta and the other woman were talking about, or what the beta—I'm sorry, _vexillum_ —guys were going on about, but that… that was good. I can understand why people get so worked up about that."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it." Enjolras' hands toy with strands of Grantaire's hair, and a shy smile crosses his face. "It's my first time actually… well…"

"Going full al—conscia?" Grantaire shifts slightly, and the feel of Enjolras full and taut within him starts the fire building again in his gut. This is going to be a long, exciting day, it seems.

"Yes." Enjolras kisses his brow, a feather-gentle touch that contrasts with the bruises Grantaire knows he's going to have on his neck.

"I'd sort of figured that, since… well, since you said when we got together that I was your first anything." Grantaire tries not to blush or smile wider, though he's glad that Enjolras has never participated in the fights for unattached omegas who have the bad luck to go into heat in a public space.

Though given how much he had to fight to get Enjolras to agree to this, Enjolras might actually be someone who would take an omega and then not actually sleep with them.

Grantaire's breath catches in his throat as another little burst of desire runs through him. Damn, but this is going to be a _very_ long day.

"Shall we try to make it to the bedroom this time?" Enjolras' eyes dance as he runs just the tip of his index finger down Grantaire's cheek.

"We can try." Grantaire kisses the fingertip as it glides past his mouth. "And given how good you are at trying, we may actually succeed."

Enjolras laughs, a low sound that reverberates through Grantaire's chest.

They pass the rest of the day together, and Grantaire has never been so tired or so happy as he is when they curl up that night, the fire of his heat finally sated, and fall asleep in each other's arms.


	2. The Size of the Dream

Grantaire finds out he's pregnant ten days later.

He tests himself every day, though he knows it will take at least a week to have a positive result. He's refraining from drinking or taking his heat-suppressing medication while he waits for a concrete negative result, though, and each not-pregnant test is a slight loosening of a knot around his heart. A knot of _what_ , he's not sure he could say—fear, uncertainty, hesitation, excitement, desire, there's a lot wrapped up in that knot.

He goes to meetings like usual, and if any of the other Amis noticed his and Enjolras' absence or smell anything odd about him they're polite enough not to mention it. He listens more avidly than ever to Enjolras' speeches, and his heart seems to skip a beat when Enjolras talks about the rights of omegas.

Enjolras thinks he should have a right to his heats and his house, to pregnancy and politics both.

Enjolras says that there is nothing different about him and other men, when Enjolras _knows_ that there is. Enjolras has stroked him to completion, Grantaire's penis hard in Enjolras' hand. Enjolras has done the unthinkable and had Grantaire mount him during some of their play. And Enjolras has held him down and claimed him during his heat, the smell of desire driving them both crazy.

Grantaire doesn't know what he believes, and he can't drink until he's certain no child has resulted from the heat, so instead he stares and wonders and worries.

The world feels too crystal-clear, too sharp without the one-two combination of his hormonal suppression and alcohol in his system, and he doesn't know if he could stand it for the ten months of a consurge's pregnancy.

On the other hand… if it's Enjolras' child…

And then the strip turns bright pink top to bottom rather than staying dull brown, and Grantaire knows that he's pregnant.

For long minutes he simply stares at the test, not certain what this means.

Then he repeats it, and watches again as the test turns bright pink.

He holds the test strips next to the small box that they came in, matches the pink color to the image that is labeled "Positive test, Congratulations!".

And then he runs to the phone and calls Bossuet, because he doesn't know what else to do.

XXX

Bossuet arrives at Grantaire's apartment twenty minutes after their phone call ends.

Grantaire is still holding the phone cradled in his lap, the shiny silver surface reflecting his face and his hands and the room in distorted, haunting ways. The cord that connects the phone to the wall and allows the operator to connect him to people far away is a thick white umbilicus holding him in place, keeping him from pacing unless he sets down the phone, and he really doesn't want to do that.

The phone is a connection to the outside world. The phone is one of the marvelous new inventions that Combeferre had been gushing about five years ago, a marvel that will, in time and with refinement and the laying of lines, mean no one is cut off from the rest of the human race unless they wish to be. The phone is a beautiful example of the progress that mankind can take if they stop killing each other, though Grantaire had been quick to point out that the same year the telephone came into vogue so did a new type of projectile that had a two hundred percent increase in likelihood of fatality due to the way in which it fragmented upon contact.

Bossuet doesn't knock. He simply opens the door, walks in, closes it behind him, divests himself of his coat, and moves to Grantaire's side.

His hands are gentle as they pry the phone out of Granaire's fingers and place it on the small table again. The small tag that identifies Bossuet as Joly's omega dangles from a black leather band wrapped around his left wrist, almost hidden by the other charms and trinkets that Joly and Musichetta have given him. It still manages to catch and hold Grantaire's eyes.

"Grantaire." Bossuet kneels in front of him, reaches up to gently turn Grantaire's head so that their eyes meet. "You're pregnant?"

Grantaire can only nod, his words frozen in his throat.

Bossuet lets out a long, quiet sigh. "You know who the father is?"

That question shocks Grantaire from his reverie, and a sound more akin to a dog's growl than anything a proper man should make escapes him as he jerks back from Bossuet's touch. "Of course. What kind of omega do you think I—"

"I think you just had your first adult heat cycle two weeks ago, the first you've had since it was discovered you were a fertile omega as a child, and that it's very easy for things to go wrong with experimentation like that." Bossuet's smile is charming, but there's an edge of pain behind it that brings Grantaire up short.

How had he forgotten how Bossuet's first heat ended? Grantaire's face reddens and he looks down. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—I just—I don't… I don't know what to do."

Bossuet rocks back on his heels, his hands clasped together in front of him. "That depends on what you want to do. Is Enjolras the father?"

"Yes." The flush that had been fading from Grantaire's face redoubles as he remembers his heat and all that it entailed. "Very much yes."

"Good." The smile on Bossuet's face loses any edge of sorrow. "Then the decision will be entirely yours. There are some alphas even numbered among our list of allies who would use this against you, but Enjolras is a true _conscia_. He won't force anything upon you, or bring punishment for the decision you choose as right for you."

"My decision." Grantaire finds his hands have both gone to his flat stomach, are pressed hard over the area where the child—children, omegas frequently bore large litters for their alpha—are still too small to notice. "I could…"

"You could have an abortion." Bossuet nods, any trace of levity wiped from his face. "It's illegal, of course, but I know people—Joly and Combeferre know people. Hell, Joly's been trying to learn, and I think Combeferre has, as well, they might be able to do it themselves. No matter who it is we'll make sure they're good, take you somewhere safe and clean, and with Enjolras as the father there's little chance anyone will ask prying questions. It will be as though this never happened."

"But it _did_ happen." Grantaire raises his head. "I _asked_ for this to happen. I went off my medication and… but it was a small chance, only ten percent…"

"Grantaire, you've a right to live your life without chemical dependence if that's what you wish." Bossuet reaches out, rubs his thumb over Grantaire's cheek, and only then does Grantaire realize that he's crying. "If you aren't ready, if you don't think you could handle it, we'll support you in whatever choice you make."

"And if I make it soon enough, the authorities will never know." Grantaire shivers. "I won't lose… everything."

"You won't." Bossuet smiles again. "You did very well hiding your heat. We only figured it out because both you and Enjolras changing your schedules at the last minute was… a bit odd. Plus Courfeyrac asked Enjolras, and he's not one to directly lie so he just said 'ask Grantaire if you want an explanation'."

"But… it's Enjolras' child." Grantaire bites down hard on his lower lip. " _Enjolras'_ child. With me. I don't… I don't dislike that idea, you know? I think I'll be a terrible parent, and _that_ idea terrifies me, but… it's Enjolras'. A child—possibly children—from Enjolras. How can I decide to _kill it_ and then look at him afterward?"

"You'd look him in the eye because you'd know you made the right decision for yourself, and that Enjolras would never begrudge you that." Bossuet takes both of Grantaire's hands in his. "But if you do want to keep your children, gods above, Grantaire, we're not going to force you to abort them. What is it that frightens you? What's making you cry, other than suddenly having hormones that you've been suppressing all your life?"

Grantaire finds his lips turning up into a smile in the face of Bossuet's continual good cheer and determination. "I don't know how to be a good parent. Mine… they gave me an apartment and an allowance because they couldn't stand to be with me anymore. What if I ruin the child? What if I hurt _Enjolras' child_?"

"Yours, as well. Don't fixate so much on the Enjolras part—any child you have is going to be a part of you, as well."

"That doesn't make it better! Then it's ruined from the outset."

Bossuet's fingers flick against Grantaire forehead in a soft smack. "No. We aren't friends with you for your good looks, Grantaire—not that I'm saying you're ugly, don't look at me like that, you wounded deer. You're intelligent, you're funny, you're a good friend when it counts. You're afraid of being a bad parent—good. All parents should be afraid. It keeps you watching your actions. But I think you could do just fine, especially since the little one will have all of the Amis to look after them."

"Really?" Grantaire can feel some of the threads of panic shred away at the thought of any child of Enjolras'—of _his_ —being surrounded by the love and camaraderie of their friends.

"Really." Bossuet laughs. "What, you think we speak of omega rights and then the moment you're pregnant toss you aside? The work will be hardest on you and our fearless leader, of course, but we'd hardly abandon you. Combeferre will ensure the children know far too much for their age; Courfeyrac will teach them courtesy; Joly will help you keep them clean and design their room to have the perfect flow of energy; all of us will help you, Grantaire. You won't be alone."

For a moment a tableau of absolute joy opens up before him, the Amis caring for and raising another generation—the Amis _living_ to raise another generation in health and comfort. Then the charms on Bossuet's wrist jingle, and Grantaire shakes his head. "How could we ask that of you? Everyone is so busy… and there's so much danger for us, trying to fight to change things…"

"There is. But that doesn't mean we're not allowed a future." Bossuet's right hand goes to the bracelet, his fingers tracing over the simple silver orb with Joly's name inscribed on it. "I wasn't able to carry Joly's children to term last time, but that doesn't mean that he and I and Musichetta haven't talked about having children. When the time is right, when it doesn't… hurt quite so much to consider it, we'd like to start a family."

Grantaire watches Bossuet's hands toy with the symbol that both protects and damns him, making him a legal part of Joly and Musichetta's family while also stripping him of the right to property, a vote, a job, an education, or even a criminal record. Bossuet was entirely Joly's, in the eyes of the law, unable to make any decisions for himself, wholly dependent on and beholden to his alpha. Even Musichetta had more freedom than he as a woman, not forced to wear an identification tag naming an alpha, not considered quite as much of a public hazard as an omega. The fact that Bossuet's alpha was a friend first and a member of the resistance must make it bearable, but still painful.

Bossuet follows the trajectory of Grantaire's gaze and lifts his left wrist. "If the authorities find out, they will demand you name your alpha. Enjolras will, I think, end up doing as Joly did, allowing the paperwork to go through while not changing much of how the two of you interact. The apartment contract and your bank account would be transferred into his name. Your artwork could still be sold, but finding any other way to make a living would likely be difficult."

"But my only other option is to kill his children—my children." Grantaire once more presses his hands to his stomach, lowering his head.

Could he do it?

Could he let a doctor finish this before it really starts?

Perhaps.

And perhaps he could even look Enjolras in the eyes afterward, because he knows Enjolras would be there to pull his chin up, demanding they be equals.

But does he want to?

No.

An echo of Enjolras' voice seems to whisper through the apartment, and the word he says is one that Grantaire loves.

_Mine._

So what if the law declares him Enjolras'? He has been Enjolras' from the day he met the man, adores him utterly, and even if society were to demand he wear the tag around his neck on a collar like a dog, as some alphas forced their omegas to do and others said all omegas should do, he will not be ashamed.

Raising his head, Grantaire smiles at Bossuet. "I want to keep my child."

"All right." Bossuet returns the smile and squeezes his hand. "We'll do everything we can to help you."

XXX

Grantaire goes to the Musain as usual that night.

He still hasn't called Enjolras. He needs to. He needs to get Enjolras alone. He needs to let him know what's happened. There is still a chance that he will naturally miscarry the child, but such a thing is extremely rare in omegas, and Enjolras deserves as much time to prepare as possible.

What if he's upset, though?

What if he decides it was a mistake for them to do this?

What if he wants Grantaire to abort the child?

They're foolish thoughts, foolish fears, but they chase each other around Grantaire's head, and so he doesn't call Enjolras.

He can go to the meeting, listen to the others work on their newest round of treasonous treatises, and eventually he will get a chance to talk with Enjolras.

It's only the core group of Amis who are present in the back room, Grantaire their ninth and final member to arrive. Grantaire is glad that Marius, Cosette, Eponine, the boy Gavroche, and their other semi-regular members aren't there, because what happens is embarrassing enough with just his closest friends present.

Grantaire can't smell or see or feel anything different about himself.

Grantaire, however, is not an alpha.

There are three alphas in the Amis, and all three of them rise to their feet and turn to stare at him as soon as he opens the door.

Joly settles back down again almost immediately, Bossuet's hand on his arm dragging him down.

Courfeyrac and Enjolras are on Grantaire before he can think to move. Courfeyrac gets in one good sniff at Grantaire's neck, and then Enjolras has elbowed him aside—somewhat gently—and has Grantaire wrapped in his arms, his face pressed up against Grantaire's neck, his hands roving over Grantiare's body.

"Well." Bahorel drawls out the noncommittal word. "Given that reaction, I'd say there's one of two possibilities. You're in heat, which we're pretty sure happened two weeks ago, or…"

"Pregnant." Enjolras murmurs the words, something like awe in his voice as he steps back and holds Grantaire out at arm's length. "You're pregnant. And they're mine."

All Grantaire can manage to do is nod, but that's all right, because the second he gives the affirmation Enjolras has him wrapped in a tight hug again.

"You're pregnant with my child." Enjolras is vibrating with suppressed energy.

"You're… not upset?" Grantaire asks the question in a quiet, uncertain voice, and hates himself a bit for that.

"Upset?" Enjolras pulls back, frowning. "Are you?"

"I… I mean, it's yours, so no, but…"

"You don't have to do this if you don't want to." Enjolras' right hand slides slowly down Grantaire's waistcoat, coming to rest over the center of his abdomen. "I would never force this on anyone. But if you want it, I am quite happy to have a child with you."

Grantaire bites his lip but even that can't contain his smile. "At the moment, I would like nothing better."

"Then come." Enjolras pulls him forward, suddenly all brisk business again, and seats him in a chair next to Courfeyrac at Enjolras' table, far away from his usual haunts with Bossuet and Joly and Bahorel and a dark corner where drink is plentiful. "This makes it even more imperative that we get things done."

"I'm not sure I—" Grantaire tries to protest this new seating arrangement, but Enjolras' hand on his shoulder keeps him from rising.

"You'll sit here, with me, and help me, and I will get anything you need. Do you want a drink? I'm sure you do, and I'm sure it's going to be hard maintaining your separation from alcohol, but I'll bring you some tea. And dinner. Have you eaten yet? Mm, a small snack then. Courfeyrac, Combeferre, I apologize but I'll be back in a moment."

Enjolras disappears out into the main part of the Musain, his expression set in thoughtful determination, his shoulders squared.

Grantaire looks helplessly at the alpha and beta he's sharing a table with.

That's apparently all it takes to send Courfeyrac into gales of laughter. Combeferre maintains his composure better, but even his lips are turned up in a definite smile.

"Oh. Oh heavens." Courfeyrac finally stops laughing, peering at Grantaire. "You are in for a very long ten months, my friend."

"Indeed." A bit of the smile fades from Combeferre's face. "You've thought about all the ramifications of your choice?"

"I have." Grantaire nods.

Combeferre's smile grows again. "Then congratulations to you. And I promise we'll do our best to keep him from driving you crazy over the next ten months."

"Mainly by driving him crazy in turn." Courfeyrac adds cheerfully.

Grantaire isn't quite sure what to say to that, so he just smiles and waits for Enjolras to return, still frightened but also, for the first time in a long time, very excited about the future.


	3. Holding Dignity

Enjolras follows him home that night.

Grantaire isn't sure what he thinks of that, just like he isn't sure what he thought of sitting at Enjolras' side for the entirety of the meeting. Not that he disliked being by Enjolras—he enjoys any time he has in the man's company—but there's a certain… exhausting intensity to the man that Grantaire sometimes shields himself from simply by avoiding being the focus on his attention.

It's hard to avoid that focus when it seems to return to you all the time.

And harder still when Enjolras can clearly hear every little comment and snide remark he makes.

Enjolras is quiet as they walk, his hands in the pockets of his suit jacket, his eyes watching the sidewalk ahead of them. There aren't many others out—it's past curfew for women and omegas, and those who are about are mostly young alphas and betas, almost all of them in small clusters.

Grantaire finds his hands rubbing at his wrists, wondering what it will feel like when there is an identification tag dangling there. Will he always notice it, or will it eventually become just another part of his attire, no more distracting than his clothes or his hair?

How long does he dare to wait before applying for one? He was supposed to ask for one as soon as he went off his medication, and there are tales whispered of the things the police will do if they catch an unregistered omega. Not to mention the very real likelihood of a fine that they would make Enjolras pay for him if he's discovered.

And there is little doubt in his mind that he will be discovered. The only possible recourse to discovery, since he won't consider abortion, would be to hide for ten months, and he's not willing to do that—doesn't think he'd be _able_ to do that. Some trick of fate would see him on the street, eight months pregnant and with no identification tag, and then they would _really_ be in trouble.

No, better that he go and take care of that problem before it gets to that point.

How to bring it up to Enjolras, though, especially when Enjolras is so silent and morose next to him?

Grantaire doesn't know how to start the conversation, so he says nothing, acutely aware of the swing of his arms at his side as he walks. Does it look awkward? Should he stand straighter? His father had always said he slouched like a true omega. But he _is_ a true omega—pregnant, even. But will Enjolras—

"Do you really believe it?" Enjolras asks the question out of nowhere.

"Uh…" Grantaire glances around, but there is nothing to give him context for the demand. "Do I believe what?"

"Do you really believe that you will always be less than an alpha?" Enjolras rounds on him, his blue eyes luminous in the brand-new electric lights that have gone up along both sides of the street over the past month to banish the darkness. "Do you really believe that the gods made the _consurges_ to be less than the _conscia_?"

"It doesn't matter what I believe." Grantaire rubs at his wrist again, meeting Enjolras' eyes evenly, understanding, now, which ill-timed comment from the evening Enjolras has been pondering. "Because everyone _else_ believes it. Alphas are stronger, faster, smarter, more virile than any others. Betas are less physically powerful but still better than women. And even women are better than omegas. Omegas were created by the gods simply as a means of repopulation for alphas and betas when the number of women became too small to make it workable."

"That's what the official story is, yes." Enjolras' right hand slices through the space between them, as though the gesture could cut apart the fabric of reality as everyone knows it. "But it doesn't make _sense_. The gender balance between the four sexes is almost perfect, a quarter of the population each. And why would the gods make people to be less than others? And even if they _did_ , why should we follow them and believe them?"

Grantaire shrugs. "Why _shouldn't_ we?"

"Because it's wrong." Enjolras presses closer to him, reaches up to run a hand along Grantaire's face. "You are intelligent. You are creative. You could do _so much_ , but because of an accident of birth, a quirk of genetics—assuming genetics is even _real_ , they haven't found the basis for that theory yet—you're supposed to live your life as a _slave_ to me? Why?"

"Because omegas are fickle and reckless and a danger to themselves and society." Grantaire mumbles the words as he leans into Enjolras' touch, not really caring what they are, just speaking and relishing the feel of Enjolras' skin on his. "Because omegas have the worst traits of women combined with the aggression of men."

"We both know amazing, intelligent women." Enjolras whispers the word, their mouths close together, heat sizzling between their skin. "And it seems that if self-control were the only issue, vexillum should have higher social standing than conscia, yes?"

"But betas aren't as aware as alphas. They can't smell a consurges' heat—they can't knot and be sure of pregnancy." Grantaire yearns to lean forward, to kiss Enjolras, but he is acutely aware, suddenly, of their position on the street. "And most aren't physically as capable—not as strong, not as fast, not as agile."

Enjolras pulls back slowly, reluctance in every line of his body. "Most, not all. Never all, never for any of these rules that we're taught, and how many more would fall outside the acceptable parameters if we didn't strive to keep people within them? You are as worthy as any other person of respect and dignity, Grantaire, and I don't want to hear you say again that our fight against oppression is _silly_."

"All right." Grantaire breaks into a trot to catch up with Enjolras as the alpha turns and walks briskly toward Grantaire's house. "You know I didn't mean it, anyway. I _know_ what you and the others stand for. I just… have trouble taking it seriously, or thinking that we'll actually win."

"You need to take it seriously, Grantaire." Enjolras' hand finds its way into his, their fingers clasping together. "Because it's going to be very seriously impacting you now, whether you want it to or not, and I can only protect you from some of it. And for that, more than anything else, I am sorry."

Grantaire blinks. "You've no need to be—"

"Do you have food for breakfast tomorrow?" Enjolras waves to the doorman of Grantaire's apartment, who lets them through with a smile and a wave and a wink to Enjolras.

Grantaire tries not to blush too strongly, wondering for one panicked second if the man knows about his heat and then deciding that it's just the usual fondness with which Grantaire's neighbors greet Enjolras. Two years of dating have made Enjolras a familiar face, even if he doesn't often come to Grantaire's rooms.

"Grantaire." Enjolras' voice is half-amused as he pauses before Grantaire's door to pull out the proper key. "Food?"

"I think I have breakfast." For a panicked moment Grantaire can't remember if he does or doesn't, and if Enjolras is staying with him than he'd really prefer that he _does_. "Um… yes, I'm certain I do, bread and cheese and some very nice apples."

"Good." Enjolras pulls him through the door and into a tight hug that ends in a kiss. "That means I get to stay here with you all night and spoil you, my beautiful mate."

Grantaire laughs, a soft, breathless sound, as Enjolras spins them around and then kisses him soundly.

If this is how things are going to be for the next ten months, Grantaire could get used to it.

XXX

"And this will be your identification tag." The bored beta holds up a silver star with Enjolras' name engraved in the center of it. "Does it match the style that you chose?"

Grantaire nods, numbly.

"And you, alpha." The beta flicks his eyes to Enjolras. "Your name's spelled correctly?"

"Yes." Enjolras stands still at Grantaire's side, but it's an ugly stillness, a terrible self-control, and Grantaire fears what might happen if it were to break.

"All right then." The beta flips through the papers that they've both signed. "The property and financial transfers should all be done within a week. Any pending payments that you've made will still be honored, but you aren't allowed to take on any further debt without your alpha's approval."

"I understand." Licking at his lips, Grantaire tries not to tremble as he watches the clerk set aside the file that means his independent life, at least in the eyes of the law, is over.

"Good. Congratulations." The man smiles at Enjolras as he turns back to them, a selection of black leather strips held in his right hand, the silver tag still in his left. "Did you want a wrist or a neckband for your omega?"

"Grantaire?" Enjolras doesn't turn to look at Grantaire as he asks the question, a muscle twitching beneath his left eye. "Which would you prefer?"

Trying not to bite his lip, afraid that he will just make Enjolras more tense and furious if he doesn't finish this quickly, Grantaire stares at the bands. "Wrist. Left wrist."

He'll feel less like a dog that way, and since it's his non-dominant hand it shouldn't interfere _too_ much with his painting.

"Shouldn't let him make decisions like that." The beta smiles indulgently as he gestures for Grantaire to step closer to the booth again. "Let them make small choices, you'll have them balking at the important ones. You need to be firm from the outset, they always say. Now, omega, give me your—"

Enjolras' arm shoots out, grabs Grantaire's wrist before the clerk can so much as brush the black band against it. A barely-audible growl rumbles in Enjolras' throat. "Don't _touch_ him."

"Whoa there." The beta rears back, hands up by his head in a placating gesture. "Don't worry, alpha. I'm not going to hurt your mate. I just need to get the size right."

( _hurt already hurt take their humanity leave them_ nothing _damn us all_ )

Blinking, Grantaire stares hard at the long, familiar fingers now wrapped around his wrist, holding his arm back from the clerk. What _was_ that?

Nothing he can hold in his mind, nothing he can recall clearly, and so he shakes his head and focuses on the present.

"Enjolras." Grantaire finds himself strangely calm as he takes Enjolras hands in his, disentangling Enjolras' fingers from around his wrist. "It's all right. Everything's already done. This is just… just a formality. After this, we can go home."

"Home." Enjolras' upper lip trembles, and Grantaire has the curious impression that he's about to both cry and kill someone. "Yes. We'll finish this."

Presenting his arm again to the clerk, Grantaire tries not to watch as the man fits the leather bracelet to his wrist, attaches the charm with Enjolras' name, and then begins to sew the band closed around Grantaire's arm.

"Newly mated?" The clerk speaks cheerfully, in a calm, congenial voice.

Grantaire tries not to look at him like he's mad. Not that it matters much, since the man only has eyes for Enjolras.

"Four weeks ago." Enjolras' answer is short and terse, his body still held at a bowstring tenseness.

Three weeks since Grantaire knew that he needed to have this done. Three weeks that they talked and argued and Enjolras asked him repeatedly if he was sure this was what he wanted to do.

Three weeks that Enjolras' been living with him, sleeping with him, trying to cook for him until Grantaire protested that he would prefer not to die of food poisoning.

Three weeks since his life changed forever.

"Really? You must be real fond of this one, then, to still be so jumpy and uptight. It's almost always the newly-mated ones who are all territorial." The clerk laughs as he finishes affixing the bracelet, turning Grantaire's hand over multiple times and tugging on the band. "There. That's to be worn by your omega at all times. If it gets damaged or the band needs to be repaired, come by the office, a new one can be issued for a nominal fee. Not that I expect you'll be in much of a position to damage it."

The clerk grins at him, but Grantaire, still reeling from all that's happening, can't quite understand why.

Rolling his eyes, the clerk shifts his gaze deliberately from Enjolras to Grantaire. "You're not much a of looker, honey, which means that you're a breeder. I hope you give him a big litter, because that's what guys like him tend to want."

And then the man does something that Grantaire simply can't process.

He leans over the barrier between them and pats Grantaire's still-flat stomach, grinning broadly at Enjolras as he does. "I'm sure you filled him up nicely, tiger."

Grantaire's not entirely sure what happens next. All he can remember is a terrible roaring in his ears, the feel of blood somehow managing to both crowd to and drain from his face at the same time, and the sound of Enjolras' furious growl.

His next clear recollection is of Enjolras' arm around his shoulders, the sun warm on their faces, the wind a gentle caress through his hair, as they walk swiftly down the sidewalk away from the registrar's office.

Grantaire glances at Enjolras' right hand, currently clenched firmly on Grantaire's right shoulder, and confirms that one of the fragments of memory he has from the last five minutes might be true, since there is blood smeared along all of Enjolras' knuckles. "You punched him."

"I _told_ him not to touch you." There's still a growling undertone to Enjolras' words. "The fact that he couldn't listen to an alpha should be grounds enough for punishment in his world."

"You can't just punch government officials!" Grantaire wants to stop, but he's afraid if they do someone will come running after them, take Enjolras away, and he's shaking too badly to really contemplate that.

"Oh yes I can." Another snarl, animalistic, oozing with a menace that Grantaire has never heard before, seems to crawl its way out of the depths of Enjolras' body. "What I can't do is kill every last one of them, though that's what I'd love to do."

That _does_ bring Grantaire to a halt, the panic and humiliation from before shredding away in the face of a brand-new terror. "No. You don't believe that. You don't _say_ something like that, Enjolras. It's not _you_."

Enjolras stops, as well, pulling Grantaire into an embrace that is becoming more familiar and more comforting with each passing day. "No. I don't mean it. You're right, I don't want wanton slaughter. But they just… I just signed away your humanity in their eyes, Grantaire. He just _touched you_ while _leering_ at me because we dared to love each other, openly and honestly. I've never felt so… _dirty_ as I did in there, and when he humiliated you I just… couldn't stand it."

"I'm sorry." Grantaire whispers the words into Enjolras' ear, his arms around Enjolras in return, the silky softness of Enjolras' hair a comforting cushion on his cheek and an achingly pleasant fragrance for his sensitive nose. "I didn't… I hadn't thought about how hard this would be on you."

"You've nothing to be sorry for. And you shouldn't have been considering me at all." Enjolras straightens, pulls back and begins running his fingers through Grantaire's hair, straightening his clothes, though his fingers stay far away from the charm now dangling from Grantaire's wrist. "You're the one who just gave up everything in an attempt to keep you and our child safe. You're the one who's been hurt by this, not me."

Grantaire doesn't think that's true, not entirely, but he knows that stubborn look on Enjolras' face, and he doesn't feel like fighting with the man right now. "Do you think you'll get in trouble?"

Enjolras pauses in his ministrations. "I think… they might fine me. I doubt they'll do more than that. You are my property, in their eyes, and he was willfully manhandling my property after I requested him not to."

Enjolras looks nearly physically ill as he says the last sentence, his eyes taking on a glazed, dull look, his voice losing all of its usual sharp spirit and luster.

"It's done now, though." Grantaire takes Enjolras' hand, trying not to wince as he feels the unfamiliar sharpness of the silver star's points resting against his skin. "We don't have to deal with them anymore. We can go back home, and have things the way we want them."

"Right." Enjolras musters up a smile, holding Grantaire's hand tight. "And one day, I promise, all of this… this _nonsense_ will be changed. I swear it, Grantaire."

"As long as I have you, I'll put up with any nonsense." Grantaire smiles as they resume walking, each step causing the star to bounce and touch his skin. A strange little thrill goes through him every time, a combination of hatred and desire, disgust and joy. The band marks him as omega, but it also marks him as _Enjolras'_. One is terrible; the other is everything he has every wanted.

"You can be just as romantic as Jehan, you know." Enjolras shakes his head, a bemused smile touching his lips. The tension seems to ease from his body with each step that they take away from the government building. "Now, what would you like for dinner?"

"Pasta, I think, if we're going out. Otherwise we can pick up some eggs and maybe some ham for home." Grantaire can't suppress his own smile as Enjolras' face takes on a familiar, determined cast. "You do realize that I don't actually _need_ to eat more right now, that it's going to take longer than a month before the little brat or brats is putting a huge drain on my system."

"I know that. I also know there's a chance you won't want to eat much shortly, if nausea is one of the symptoms of your pregnancy, and I know you weren't terribly good with nutrition prior to this, so we're making up for lost time and planning against potential futures."

"Enjolras, _you_ weren't good at nutrition prior to this." Grantaire keeps his tone one of good-natured annoyance, the last of the trembling fading from his body. "The number of times Combeferre and Courfeyrac had to literally place food on top of your work to get you to stop and eat—"

"So it's good for both of us." Enjolras' grin is smug and certain. "Right?"

"As you say, conscia." A flicker of pain flashes through Enjolras' eyes, there and then gone, and Grantaire curses the people who could make this man, this glorious man, ashamed of what he is. "I've got to say, eating three regular meals a day has made me feel better. As has the exercise regiment and the company at night. Who knew you made a good blanket?"

Enjolras smiles again. "Who knew you made a good pillow?"

They continue to talk and banter as they head for home, and Grantaire almost, but not quite, manages to get used to the band around his wrist.


	4. Greater than the Fear

He's lucky enough to escape morning sickness, but Grantaire starts to visibly show his pregnancy at just after two months.

He ignores it, at first, pretending that the extra tightness to his pants is something else, just a bit too much to eat, just the effect of his new and improved diet, anything other than a visual reminder of the life currently struggling to grow and thrive inside him.

There comes a day when that's impossible to do, though, when his trousers are just that extra bit too tight, when he starts to worry that if he doesn't let out the seams on his clothes he may damage his unborn children—Enjolras' unborn children.

And that is the last straw, the worst possibility that he can ever imagine.

So Grantaire calls it a day early, giving his regards to Bossuet and Joly and returning to his house hours before he usually would, before he needs to travel to the Musain, before he has Enjolras at his side.

His house feels… quiet without Enjolras there, empty, somehow, in a way that Grantaire isn't used to. Strange, since up until six weeks ago he had lived on his own, Enjolras an ephemeral flame that flitted in and out of Grantaire's abode with the vagaries of their romance and busy lives.

He has come to enjoy Enjolras' frequent presence at his side and in his house, though. For the three years of their acquaintance Grantaire has been Enjolras' shadow, watching the man, listening with a combination of avid confusion and amused sorrow to his proclamations of equality for all, freedom for all, his denunciations of the government. Once they became romantically involved Enjolras was a more common presence in his life, but Grantaire had understood from the start that though he is precious to Enjolras, Enjolras' life belongs to a higher cause.

A cause that has been devouring more and more of his time lately, and perhaps moving into his apartment and walking Grantaire to and from their meetings at the Musain is Enjolras' way of apologizing for the long hours he keeps, the frequent speeches, the near-constant flow of people—alpha, beta, female, omega—around him that has only seemed to increase in intensity over the last two months.

If that's true, Grantaire finds it a fair trade. There is comfort in Enjolras at his side, a lessening of the pain that always seems only a disdainful glance away, alpha and beta's eyes falling on the charm dangling from his wrist and subsequently skipping over Grantaire as though he isn't there.

Grantaire lost his access to classes as soon as the band was sewn around his wrist. He didn't mind too much—he hadn't been a terribly good student anyway—but it left a large hole in his schedule, a gap that he has tried to fill with friends, food, and finally, out of desperation, housework. After all, if Enjolras is going to be his roommate, he should try to keep the dirty clothes off the floor.

And now, he supposes as he strips out of his clothing, he will be taking one more step into his new status, attempting to figure out how to dress so that the growing swell of his middle is hidden for as long as possible.

He studies the seams on his trousers for long seconds, struggling to remember the classes he had been forced to attend during his primary schooling, classes that had been filled solely with omegas, designed to teach them the skills they would need when they were mated—their teachers never said _if_ , always _when_ , though most of the children who attended those classes beside Grantaire declared as Grantaire did that they would never, ever become pregnant. Never sacrifice the scant respect and chance at a male life that they had to take on a role that was beneath even that of a woman. Never forfeit their rights to an alpha, be bound, be trapped, be something that could be seen and spoken of and touched as though they were an object—

He doesn't mean to throw the trousers across the room. He doesn't know he's done it until the deed is done, his hands empty and shaking, his fingers clenched hard into fists as his breath rasps in and out of his throat.

The charm still dangles from his left wrist, sways in time to his trembling body, and he clenches his right hand around it, hiding it from view, the points digging into his palm with a sharp clarity.

Enjolras does not see him as less because of his status.

Enjolras does not see him as property.

It isn't nearly enough, but it is all Grantaire can hope for, all he could ever ask, and it is enough to slow his breathing again.

His eyes catch on his reflection in the half-length mirror hanging on the wall next to his dresser, and he finds himself gravitating toward it. His lips are pressed tight together, pale with tension and frustration still, though his cheeks burn blotchy with his anger. His right hand reaches out, taps against the face in the mirror, and he forces his lips into a grin. "You're even uglier when you sulk, friend, so best keep a smile on your face."

Best not to allow himself to dwell on all that's lost—all that he's willingly sacrificed. This was his choice, after all—his choice to please Enjolras, his choice to keep the children, his choice to register himself so that he wouldn't be chased now, when he began to show his mating so that even betas could see it. He can't very well make the choice and then complain about the outcome.

His eyes drift down the image in the mirror, settling on his lower body, and his breath catches in his throat. No wonder he has to change his wardrobe. He still has the muscling over his ribs and abdomen and in his hips that his active lifestyle and martial sparring with the others has given him, but there's a definite protrusion of his lower abdomen now, a rounding and softening that has nothing to do with fat and everything to do with pregnancy. His nipples are still small, but the flesh around them is starting to swell, just the faintest hint of the breasts that will develop as Grantaire's pregnancy progresses. Yet he doesn't look entirely female, his penis and testicles hanging disconsolately and uselessly below his expanding midsection.

Perhaps it would have been better if he were born female. At least there would have been no choice involved in his life path, then.

No. That's an unfair statement, and he knows it. He's seen how hard the females' status is on them, has seen the hunger for control and self-determination burning high in Eponine's eyes, has seen the terrible despair and frustration in Cosette's tears as the Amis struggled to help her keep Marius safe and with her despite Marius' status as omega and, thus, non-marriageable.

Best to be alpha or beta, he would have said once, but even that status comes with its own burdens, and he does not think he would have the grace to handle them as well as Enjolras has.

Closing his eyes, Grantaire allows his hands to settle slowly, uncertainly, on his swollen abdomen. How many lives is he harboring? Joly had said it would be impossible to know for certain until he gave birth, though he or Combeferre could give him a better idea based on heartbeats at seven or eight months along. Even before that, though, somewhere around five months, Grantaire will be able to feel the little ones moving.

Moving, growing, living, and for what?

Does he have a right to bring children into this world? What if they're like him, omega? How does he look them in the eye and tell them it will be fine, they will have a good life, when he knows how easy it is to be trapped as an omega? What if they're female, considered less than any true male from the start? What if they're like _Enjolras_ , alpha, and Grantaire has to try to teach them to be half the _conscia_ that their father is?

It's frightening. It's so, so frightening, but he _chose_ this, he has Enjolras to help him, he has the rest of the Amis to help him, he will have _Enjolras' children_ , is carrying a portion of Enjolras inside him, and somehow there is enough determined love in his heart to make his fear not all-consuming as he lays his hands flat on his abdomen.

"Grantaire."

The word is a quiet whisper, awe-struck, and Grantaire opens his eyes and whirls to face Enjolras standing in the open doorway to their bedroom.

"Enjolras." Grantaire can feel his face heat as he retreats back away from the mirror, fumbling his trousers and shirt up off the floor. "Welcome home. It's early, isn't it? We won't be heading out for the Musain for a few hours and—"

"I'm just stopping in to grab some papers for the printers, and then I've another meeting before the day's done." Enjolras settles his shoulder bag slowly to the ground, resting it against the wall just inside the bedroom door. "And if you're hurrying to dress on my account… could I ask you not to?"

"I… well… of course." Grantaire hesitates before allowing the collected clothes in his hands to fall onto the bed. "I mean, it's not like there's any part of me you haven't seen before."

"Seen, perhaps, but not appreciated, not recently, not as I should be." Enjolras moves forward slowly, and there is still a hint of awe and wonder in his tone that Grantaire doesn't understand.

Enjolras comes to a halt before Grantaire, holding out his hands, and after a brief hesitation Grantaire clasps Enjolras' fingers in his.

"You are beautiful." Enjolras' eyes scan up and down Grantaire's body, and his lips turn up into a faint but utterly pleased smile. "The long days we've been keeping mean I haven't had nearly enough time to see your body in the light, to see how absolutely breathtaking you are."

"Enjolras." Grantaire can feel his face blush bright red as he shakes his head, though a smile tugs at his lips despite his efforts. "We both know that I'm hardly a… what was it the official said? Hardly a looker."

"So others have said, and I don't understand." Enjolras reaches up with his right hand, curls his fingers through Grantaire's hair. "Perhaps you're not conventionally beautiful, but I adore your eyes. They call them hazel, but it seems they shift with the season and your mood, shades of amber or yellow or green. And you have lips that are perfect for kissing. And your scars…" Enjolras' hand slides over Grantaire's nose, over his chin, over the slight dip on the left side of his face that gives away a once-broken cheekbone. "They show both the difficulty of our lives and the fortitude in your heart."

Enjolras' quiet, certain recitation does nothing to decrease the burning in Grantaire's cheeks, and Grantaire can actually feel warmth growing uncomfortably in other places, places that have been sadly docile since his heat, as Enjolras' fingers trace over Grantaire's face in time with his words. "I'm quite certain that bar fights have nothing to do with the difficulties currently facing our society."

"Don't they?" Enjolras' hand drops down from Grantaire's face, captures Grantaire's fingers again. "You were trying to prove your masculinity in a society that gave you none because of a biological quirk outside your control. A gross and distorted vision of masculinity, that serves no one, but a vision of masculinity that you were taught and internalized. Besides which, I know not all of these scars are from bar fights. That one on your chin, that long thin one, is from two and half years ago, from the riot just after you joined the Amis. The one above your lip is from eighteen months ago, from the riot when they considered discontinuing the heat-suppressing medications. And this one—" Enjolras leans forward, pressing a kiss to Grantaire's forehead. "This one is from when you blocked a police baton that was meant for me six months ago. I would prefer you don't block it with your head next time, but the sentiment was still noted and appreciated."

"All right." Grantaire smiles as he squeezes Enjolras' hands. "Perhaps a few were fairly earned. Doesn't change the fact that I am a dangerous degenerate omega."

"We could argue about that, but there's something else I'd rather do." Enjolras' gaze drop to Grantaire's belly, and there is a hungry gleam to the banked blue fire in his eyes. "Could I touch you, Grantaire? Could I… feel our children?"

Permission.

Enjolras asking him permission, even as he says _our children_ as though it's the most natural thing in the world, and Grantaire can't speak for a moment around a lump in his throat. Enjolras is waiting patiently for a reply, though, just the faintest tremble in his hands betraying his impatience, and Grantaire forces his mouth to open. "I am yours, Enjolras, body and soul. Touch all you like."

"You aren't mine." Enjolras drops to his knees in front of Grantaire, his hands pulling free from Grantaire's so that he can stroke them gently over Grantaire's stomach, the slight curving arch of Grantaire's flesh showing off Enjolras' lithe fingers to gorgeous effect. "You are always and forever your own. But I am happy to share your life, and to see our future growing within you… I…"

Enjolras bows his head, leaning forward until his cheek and long blond hair rest against Grantaire's abdomen. Enjolras' shoulders shake, a bare tremble, and something warm and wet slides down Grantaire's bare skin. After a confused, panicked moment Grantaire realizes that Enjolras is crying.

Dropping to his knees himself, Grantaire gathers his friend, his lover, his owner, his alpha, his _conscia_ , that is the best word, the one that comes closest to touching a fraction of what Enjolras is, into his arms.

"I'm sorry." Enjolras wipes a hand fiercely across his face, clearing away the tears. "I shouldn't… this isn't what you need."

"Don't be sorry. Just… what's wrong?" Grantaire chews on his bottom lip for a moment, shifting back self-consciously as his abdomen presses against Enjolras. "Have I done something wrong?"

"No." Enjolras' reply is sharp and certain as he reaches over to toy with Grantaire's hair again. "No, love, you are beautiful and all that I could have wanted. It's just… watching you like this, seeing how your body is changing… I realized how much I've missed, focusing so much on our work. And yet I can't change what I'm doing, because I can't bear the thought of giving the world to our children as it is. I can't imagine trying to raise a proper _consurge_ in this environment, or even a proper _conscia_ , to say nothing of male or female children. Can you forgive me, Grantaire? For doing what I must?"

"There is nothing to forgive." Grantaire is naked. He is pregnant. He is omega. There is nothing strong about him, nothing strong about his position, yet for a moment, as he brushes his lips against Enjolras' forehead, he feels as though he could take on the universe to protect this one man. "By working as you are you are _being_ yourself, the man that I fell in love with, and I would never ask you to change that. And if there is a chance we could give our children a better future… if there is that possibility… I would sooner die than stand in the way of that chance."

"I would sooner none of us die." Enjolras tugs on Grantaire's arms until Grantaire is sitting comfortably in Enjolras' lap, Enjolras' hands lying lightly on Grantaire's stomach. "And I will do all I can to be true to both you and the cause. Because you are beautiful, and the miracle growing within you is enough to bring tears to my eyes on its own."

Another thrill runs through Grantaire, and he shifts in uncomfortable embarrassment as his prick twitches at the slow glide of Enjolras' fingers across his belly. Is it normal, for desire to return as pregnancy advanced?

How in the gods' good names is he supposed to ask Joly about this without dying of shame?

"How have you been doing?" Enjolras murmurs the words into Grantaire's ear, his hands continuing their slow strokes. "It must have been difficult for you to be dismissed from classes."

"I'm doing fine. I was never terribly fond of classes, anyway, and it's given me more time to devote to my artwork. Arianne and her husband are still showing my works—at least I've that consolation, that the arts are not restricted to the alphas and betas, though Arianne did say the prices and requests for my work have dropped off in the last month." Grantaire stills his rambling tongue, certain that Enjolras doesn't want to hear of his struggles, though sales of Grantaire's art go to support them both now. "And when I don't feel like painting or sketching I've been spending more time with the Amis or doing work about the apartment. I was in the process of trying to remember my sewing skills when you came home."

"Sewing?" Enjolras' word is a soft rush of warm air against Grantaire's ear as Enjolras' hands expand their scope of exploration, sliding up to glance across Grantaire's nipples and dipping down to cup the expanded girth of Grantaire's abdomen in a warm embrace.

"Uh… sewing." Grantaire swallows, bringing his voice back down to a normal register from the undignified squeak it had become. "My clothes aren't quite fitting right anymore. I was hoping to get another month or so out of them before having to do work, but that clearly isn't going to work. If I let the seams out and perhaps add a patch or two they should work well enough for a few more weeks, though."

"We have the funds if you simply wish to buy new shirts and leggings." Enjolras' mouth trails across Grantaire's neck, placing kisses on first the right and then the left side.

"We do. But I…" Grantaire hesitates, and then presses forward. "I don't want to show so obviously. The bracelet I cannot change, but my clothing is under my control, at least for now. I fear in a month or so I will have to buy a new wardrobe, since I seem to be expanding rather faster than the average, but until then…"

"However you feel most comfortable." A heavy, tired undercurrent cuts through the warmth of Enjolras' voice as he rests his chin against Grantaire's shoulder. "Though know that you never need to feel shame about any clothing choices around me or the Amis—or about a lack of clothing around me. I find it… both heartening and gorgeous, to watch the changes in your body, and would do anything in my power to make you comfortable with them. And I am certain that the rest of the world will one day share our views."

"You won't give them an option." Grantaire arcs his body up, sliding Enjolras' hands down, claiming Enjolras as the fire builds again in Enjolras' voice with the last ringing declaration that the world will one day come to see things their way.

"There is always an option." Enjolras obligingly begins stroking his way down Grantaire's stomach again. "Some are kind and some are cruel, and I trust people to choose the kind option if presented with them properly. But I think I have put you not quite in the mood to debate politics, if I'm reading things correctly."

Grantaire stares down in dismay at his half-erect phallus, and then shrugs. "You are always an attractive and fascinating man. I'm sure you could talk a population to orgasm if you ever desired to."

Enjolras actually laughs, a startled, pleasant, low chuckle that has been heard far too little lately, and Grantaire grins in return, glad to be the reason for Enjolras' joy.

"I don't know about a crowd, but I wouldn't be averse to granting you some pleasure if you wish." Enjolras' hands still, his face quietly contemplative. "It is good to see you respond to me so… eagerly and purely. Though you always said you didn't mind the physicality while on your heat-suppressing medications…"

"It was always a job and a half to get me erect or wet, I know." Grantaire places a gentle, chaste kiss on Enjolras' lips. "And though this is strange, it's… pleasant. I feel… more connected to the world and to others than I used to when I was on my medication, more aware. Not everything about our experiment has been unpleasant."

"I think Joly and Combeferre are right about there being side-effects to the medications other than the ones the government and medical establishment conventionally acknowledge." Enjolras captures Grantaire's chin with one deft hand and returns the kiss, just as frustratingly chaste as Grantaire had been. "Much as I would love to continue this, Grantaire, I am already late for a meeting with Feuilly and some of the working-class that he's been struggling to reach. Would you mind terribly much…?"

"I will survive without you. Go, do your work." Grantaire disentangles himself from Enjolras' grasp, standing and grabbing his trousers from the bed. "I've sewing to do if I wish to be presentable this evening when we go to the Musain."

"Thank you." A brush of fingers against his shoulders, a brush of lips against the nape of his neck, and then Enjolras is at the door, his bag once more on his shoulder, a determined smile on his lips. "I will make it up to you this evening, Grantaire, once we're back from the Musain. I promise."

"There's nothing to make up." Grantaire isn't sure that Enjolras hears him, the man disappearing toward the apartment door in a swirl of blond hair and ice-sharp blue eyes.

Pressing a hand against the burning spot where Enjolras kissed him last, Grantaire tries hard to focus on the task before him and not allow himself to be lost in thoughts of what the night will bring.

He is pregnant, and he is omega, but he is _Enjolras'_ pregnant omega, and that makes all the hardships in the world worthwhile.


	5. The Hellhound Gnawing

Grantaire has to change his wardrobe completely when he's three and half months pregnant. He ends up going with low-slung trousers and a loose, billowing white shirt with an unbuttoned vest over it to provide color.

His change of clothes likely has nothing to do with the loss of his job, but the new wardrobe still makes him feel naked and defenseless as he stares in numb confusion into Arianne's eyes. "What do you mean, you won't sell any more of my paintings?"

"I mean we've sold the last of your work that we were showing, and we won't be accepting any more works from you to place in the gallery." Arianne meets his eyes evenly, her faintly lined face drawn tight with an emotion that Grantaire can't quite name. Is that sorrow? Guilt?

Does he care, given what she's saying? "But _why_? You said that my art was still selling… you said… why?"

"Because you're an omega." Arianne's eyes drop to his midsection, skewer Grantaire with ruthless efficiency. "You're pregnant. The time for you to work has passed."

Grantaire can feel his face burning, his hands shaking, the points of the star with Enjolras' name tapping against his wrist like red-hot wires, but he won't give this up so easily. Not this. "It isn't illegal for omegas to create works of art, or to sell them."

"Artwork is a grey area, one that hasn't been properly decided in court." Drawing a deep breath, Arianne squares her shoulders and meets his eyes. "But it's against the law to employ or give a platform to an omega. If your alpha wants to rent you out for manual labor, that's a different matter, but this… this is something else."

"But you've been selling my artwork for three years." Grantaire's voice cracks, and he clears his throat, not certain if he's more angry or frustrated or humiliated. "You and your husband both said that you like my style, my subjects… none of that has changed just because of… of _this_."

He waves his left hand, hating the almost-imperceptible weight of the charm and leather band, now brought fully back into his consciousness.

"It changes _everything_." Arianne's voice cools, fire snapping in her eyes. "Especially given these dangerous times, and especially given _who_ your alpha is. Painting him is one thing, but this… selling your work is being interpreted not only as a bending of the law against employing bound omegas, it's seen as supporting Enjolras, and that… is a dangerous thing to do right now."

"But you _do_ support him!" Anger wins out over humiliation as Grantaire presses forward, driving Arianne further down her front hallway. She didn't even have the grace and decency to invite him in for a drink and a seat before telling him that she's taking this last thing that is _his_ , this last little piece of self-reliance and self-expression that he's been holding to. "I've heard him speaking with you—with Emile. You both believe that there's nothing inherently dangerous about omegas, that the way we're treated by the government and given no protection is outrageous! If we're not dangerous—"

"If you're not dangerous, why are you threatening my wife?" Emile's voice is cool as he descends the staircase on Grantaire's right hand side.

"I'm not…" Grantaire takes in Arianne's white-knuckled grip on her skirt, the widening of her eyes, and hastily backs up several steps. "I'm sorry, Arianne. I would never hurt you. You know that. I'm still me. This doesn't… this doesn't change anything."

"Perhaps it wouldn't have, once." There is no mercy in Emile's cool eyes as he comes to stand at his wife's side. "But you had to go and be bound to that troublemaker. I can understand some of what Enjolras says, I grant you that. It is a travesty that not all alphas care for their omegas as they should, and that the omegas have no recourse in such situations. But what he's doing—distributing illegal pamphlet, holding rallies and speeches, telling people to actively and willfully disobey the government! If he was patient, if he waited, perhaps some progress could have been made, but all this is going to end with is bloodshed."

"Do _not_." The heat flees from Grantaire's face as rapidly as it had arrived. "Do not _dare_ to blame Enjolras for other's misdeeds and your own cowardice."

"You would call me a coward, to my face, in front of my wife?" Emile tosses his head back, and though he is older than Grantaire by at least two decades, Grantaire suddenly regrets threatening him.

So vulnerable, in these clothes, with the lives he carries showing so clearly, and what is Enjolras going to say if Grantaire injures their children in a brawl?

"Emile, love." Arianne's hand falls on her husband's shoulder. "He's hurting and scared. This is his first pregnancy. You know how pregnancy hormones always made me crabby, quick-tempered and ill-tongued."

It isn't the pregnancy that drove his tongue, but Grantaire can't bring himself to correct Arianne as Emile huffs out a breath and shakes his head.

"I'm going to the library. I've work to do finding some new _real_ artists for the gallery." Emile spins on his heel, then turns to survey Grantaire, eyes flicking up and down him dismissively. "I want you out of my house within five minutes, Grantaire. If I hear any more trouble from you, I will defend my home, and the police will be informed."

And then Emile is gone, along with any hope Grantaire had of regaining his position.

Just like that, with nothing that Grantaire could do to stop it, and he stares down at his hands in helpless frustration. Hints of paint are still trapped beneath his fingernails, ghosts of yellow and red and blue, pointless and purposeless.

"Grantaire." Arianne reaches out and brushes her fingers against his briefly, stepping closer to him again. Her voice is warm, her expression shifted to one of sorrow rather than determination. "It's not our fault. There's been talk of boycotting the gallery if we didn't stop showing omegas, and especially with how Enjolras' been behaving, the name he's been making for himself… he left us no choice."

"No choice." Grantaire can feel his lips pulling back into a parody of a smile. "As there has been no choice but for Emile to have you deal with me rather than dealing with me himself these past years? I see it, now. I thought it was just that you liked my artwork more than he did, but no. He never cared for me because of my status, but so long as my artwork sold he could overlook my… unfortunate situation."

"So long as you weren't bound, it was fine for you to make a living." Anger sparks and fades again in Arianne's eyes, and she sighs. "Grantaire, he is not a bad man. He allowed me to sell your work, after all."

There is something wrong with the way she says that, _allowed_ , but Grantaire is too numb and disheartened to try to articulate why as he meets Arianne's sorrowful eyes.

Arianne shifts uncomfortably, dropping her gaze first. "He is doing what he can—what he _must_ —to support and protect me. The things that are done sometimes to those who support omega rights… I would not have my house defiled or burned."

"No." The ghastly smile pulls again at Grantaire's lips. "Far easier to watch mine burn and blame me for it."

"No! That's not… it doesn't need to be this way!" Arianne's hands tremble as she reaches out and grips one of his. "Grantaire, there's still time for you to change things. Talk with Enjolras. He seems to genuinely care for you. Tell him the cost of his rabble-rousing. Tell him that he's pushing things too quickly, that if he were simply patient, simply willing to wait and let people change at their own pace, there would be no need for all this talk of law-breaking and civil unrest. Perhaps, if he stops now, if he retracts his statements… if the world were to settle down again, into what it was before all this talk of omega rights, I might be able to convince Emile to allow me to show your work once more."

Tell Enjolras to stop.

Tell Enjolras not to speak.

Request Enjolras abandon his cause so that Grantaire can have this one thing, this one precious, glorious thing.

The thought of Enjolras refusing makes him shake.

The thought of Enjolras acquiescing, sacrificing _that_ for _Grantaire_ , makes him physically ill.

"No." Grantaire shakes his head, and there is a tremor of horror in his voice. "I could not— _would not_ —ask that."

"If not for yourself, then for them." Arianne's hand darts across, snake-fast, to rest on Grantaire's enlarged abdomen, where her touch burns like a brand.

"Don't." Grantaire rears back, his voice falling to a low, dangerous key. "Do _not_ touch me. Not like that."

"I'm sorry." Clasping her hands together in front of her, Arianne stares at him as though his behavior were strange, bizarre. "I simply meant that you will want your children to have a father, yes?"

"I want them to have _their_ father, the man that I love. The man who sired them." Grantaire finds that his own hands have risen to protectively cradle his midsection, the daily-increasing swell that protects his future and damns his present. "If I asked him that… there would be no good answer he could give, Arianne, no answer that he could in good conscience live with. So I will not ask the question."

"Then you risk being unbound even before you deliver." Tiredness creeps into Arianne's voice as she shakes her head. "But I won't talk more of tragedy. It invites the Dark God to visit us. Instead I will simply ask you to think on what I've said, and act as your _own_ conscience and needs dictate. It is no crime to ask for safety, Grantaire, for yourself or your children or your children's sire."

"I… will consider it." He won't be able to help himself, he thinks, and he hates that a little bit, hates that he will hear her voice, now, whenever he hears Enjolras speaking, whenever Enjolras tries to paint a vision of a better tomorrow for him.

"And really, Grantaire, this isn't the end of the world." Arianne reaches out to lightly touch his hand once more, her voice becoming conspiratorial. "You're going to have children. I've only had singletons—as expected, I know, I'm a woman—and that alone has been enough to devour large swaths of my life. With two or three or four… you won't have time to paint, even if you desire to."

For one long second Grantaire only stares at her, wondering how she can say that as though it is supposed to be a comfort, as though the loss of his own autonomy and artistic expression will be balanced by the lives he will be caring for.

And then his face heats, and his breath catches in his throat, because he _knows_ , in the depths of his soul, that he has made a mistake. What kind of omega—of _consurge_ —would begrudge his children the time it will take to raise them?

He should never have done this.

He should never have told Enjolras he loved him.

He should never have gone off his heat-suppressors.

He should never have thought he could weather these storms, even with Enjolras and the rest at his side.

He is dimly aware of Arianne calling his name, her voice rising with each repetition, but he doesn't respond as he turns and lets himself out.

He has nothing left to say to her, and since she has already rejected his art, he is certain she has nothing left to say to him that could be worse than where his own thoughts will lead.


	6. The Secret of All Triumphs

Enjolras smells blood as soon as he walks through the door of their apartment.

A greeting dies in his throat, unspoken, and he settles his bag as quietly as he can to the floor in the entryway before padding forward on silent feet. It takes only a flick of his right wrist to drop the dagger from its sheath along his forearm down into his hand, and the feel of the weapon's hilt clasped firmly between steady fingers gives him some comfort as his nose and eyes and ears strain to pick out the danger.

He has been traveling armed for two months now, save for those rare times when he has to go through government security. The knives he can legally wear don't provide as much protection as a gun would, but in combination with his fighting skills they will at least discourage any assassins who like to do their work up close, and Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac had decided it was the best compromise between safety and ease of movement.

Enjolras can hear only one other person's breath in the apartment, a ragged but steady rhythm. He can smell only Grantaire—his scent shifted, subtly changed over the last months but still Grantaire, always Grantaire, just with _more_ now, an undercurrent that tells all of Enjolras' instincts that he must _protect_.

As though he wouldn't protect Grantaire all on his own, as though his _consurge_ weren't worth as much as their children will be, and sometimes he finds his _conscia_ instincts disturbing.

Charging in without knowing what's happened will help no one, though, not Grantaire or Enjolras or their children, and so Enjolras keeps his breathing slow and quiet, his tread utterly silent, as he slowly approaches the half-open door to Grantaire's art studio, the source of the blood smell.

The light is still strong in the studio, the sinking sun painting the walls in shades of orange and red, throwing long, complicated shadows over the pictures that are carefully laid out around the room in a pattern that Enjolras has never quite grasped but Grantaire always seems to understand, even when too drunk to speak properly. Shards of glass glitter against the north wall, and the smells of blood and Grantaire are both stronger the closer he comes to the door, almost enough to break Enjolras' rigid self-restraint.

A quick sweep of his eyes around the room reveals no enemy, though, and once his eyes fall on Grantaire, there is no possible way for Enjolras to keep from moving into the room.

He's almost certain, anyway, once he sees Grantaire, that there is no intruder for him to deal with, no single person he can hurt that will undo the damage.

"Grantaire." Enjolras sheaths the knife as he darts into the room and kneels at Grantaire's side.

"Enjolras?" Grantaire lifts his head, his movements slow, as though a heavy weight pressed down on him.

He is kneeling in the center of the room, his back to the broken mirror that spills glittering shards into the room like pieces of a dream. His left hand is clenched tight, dried blood leaving dark maroon trails across his cinnamon-colored skin, fresh blood oozing up from glass-glinting gouges in his flesh with each slow flex of his fingers. Grantaire's right hand toys with the black band around his left wrist, sliding over and over the star with Enjolras' name that hangs from it. Scratches of a more human nature surround the entirety of the leather band while deep scrapes score Grantaire's wrist wherever the star's points can reach.

"Oh, Grantaire." For a moment Enjolras doesn't know where to start, fury and fear flooding his veins, shaking his hands, because the longer he studies Grantaire's injuries the more certain he is that they're self-inflicted. Forcing his breathing back to a calm, sedate speed, he reaches out and gently claims both Grantaire's hands. "What happened?"

Grantaire blinks, staring around the room as though he doesn't know where he is. There is a blank, empty glaze to his eyes that frightens Enjolras almost as much as the blood. "I can't sell my paintings anymore."

"What?" Enjolras frowns, and it is only the fact that Grantaire is injured that keeps him from dashing to the door and towards Emile's house. "Why?"

Grantaire turns his head back to Enjolras, the movement still too slow, too calm, too _empty_ to belong to the man that Enjolras loves, and blinks once more. "Because I'm an omega. Because I'm pregnant. Because they don't like what you've been doing."

The recitation is almost devoid of emotion, but Enjolras still flinches at the last reason, his jaw clenching painfully tight. He has tried to shield Grantaire from any retaliations due to his—their—political affiliations and actions, but he had suspected it was only a matter of time before that became impossible.

"I tried bringing my art to other sellers." Grantaire's eyes have fallen to the black band around his wrist. "When Emile refused, I thought perhaps… but most wouldn't even speak to me. None would accept me. And I was foolish to even try."

"No, you weren't." Enjolras stands, pulling determinedly on Grantaire's hands until Grantaire stumbles to his feet as well. "I'm going to go fetch some water, I'll clean and bind your wrist and hand as best I can, and then we're going to go see Combeferre to get it properly taken care of. While I am doing this, I want you to tell me what happened, what was said, and which…" His voice stumbles, catching in his throat, as he meets Grantaire's flat, empty gaze. "Which words have hurt you so badly, my love, so I can try to find an antidote."

"It doesn't matter." Grantaire's lips pull back from his teeth in a humorless expression that is more corpse-grin than smile. "I don't want to keep you from your work. It's just—"

Releasing Grantaire's hands, Enjolras grabs his consurge's head in a fierce embrace and leans forward to kiss him soundly. His lips press hard at Grantaire's mouth, his tongue probes and prods until Grantaire's lips finally part enough to allow him entrance, and when he breaks away the light shaking of fury and fear that has continued in his body has entered his voice. "It _matters_. Something has hurt you, badly, and it _matters_."

( _I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm weak and I'm sorry_ )

Enjolras draws a sharp, pained breath, his head snapping back and his fingers spasming tight around Grantaire's, as pain and utter helplessness roar through his mind with the force of a gale, there and then gone.

He has no time to think on the incident, though, as the dull glaze recedes from Grantaire's gaze and Grantaire lifts his right hand to touch his lips. What replaces the emptiness is a bright sheen of tears, but Enjolras finds that much preferable to the corpse-look that had been there before.

"Fetch what you need." Grantaire whispers the words as he closes his eyes, releasing Enjolras' other hand with obvious reluctance. "I'll go wait for you in the bedroom. Once I start talking, I… don't know… I might…"

"Stay here." Enjolras cups Grantaire's face in both hands and kisses his more gently, trying to ignore the streak of red that his right hand has left on Grantaire's left cheek. "Don't do anything foolish. I'll be back in just a moment."

Enjolras collects water from the year-old tap in the kitchen downstairs into a pot, and none of the other residents question or approach him. He sets the water to warming on the stove, shouldering aside Sari, the man who will trade his considerable cooking prowess for a small portion of the meal created. Sari is a middle-aged, unbound, immigrant omega who has never been anything but kind to Enjolras and Grantaire, and Enjolras forces his rigid back into a brief bow and his lips to mutter an apology for his rudeness. Sari merely shrinks away from him, brown eyes wide with what might be fright, and raises his palms in a gesture of harmlessness.

Before Enjolras can respond, a hand falls on his shoulder, and he spins, snarling, his hands balling into fists though they should be reaching for the blades he carries.

He has to protect.

He has to defend.

But how is he to protect and defend when the thing responsible for the damage is all of society, when it is beliefs and attitudes that wound, that teach and then reinforce feelings of inadequacy and uselessness, that deny the injured even a voice with which to speak their pain?

"Enjolras." Marie, the old woman who has run the boarding house as a widow since her husband passed four years ago, studies him with troubled blue eyes. Looking down at his own blood-streaked hands and blood-spattered shirt sleeves, Enjolras understands why. "What's happened?"

Swallowing his anger once more, forcing the useless desire to strike someone back into a dark corner of his mind, Enjolras bows to the woman. "Nothing that need trouble you, my lady. Grantaire has injured himself in an accident. I am going to do what I can and then bring him to a doctor."

Marie's brows draw together. "Is Grantaire's—your—phone not working?"

"It…" Enjolras can feel his face heat, knows it will be obvious to the woman. "I… didn't think of that. Of course, you're right, I'll call for a doctor."

"Joly is your doctor friend, correct? I know his number. I can call him, if you need to focus on Grantaire."

Enjolras had been planning on calling Combeferre, but Joly is just as good an option, so he nods, grateful. "Thank you."

"Go back to him. I'll have some bandages and the water brought up when it's warm." The old woman smiles at him, her hands clasped together in front of her waist, her eyes meeting his in gentle compassion. "Though there have been… disagreements between he and I in the past, they have largely ceased since he stopped drinking, and he has always been willing to lend a hand to his neighbors when they needed him. Tell him that his neighbors are here for him if he needs us now."

This.

This is both the how and the why of how he will fight, because there are people like Marie—like Sari, nodding in the corner, his fear dissolving into understanding comprehension. For every person who will happily wound with their words and their actions, who will not understand the pain that another feels, there are others who will stand beside their brothers, who will fight for their own rights and the rights of others, who will not step aside and allow injury to go unchallenged.

This is what the Amis believe, what he believes, what he has been slowly urging Grantaire to believe, and he will not allow this incident to shake that belief.

"I will tell him." Enjolras bows again, finding the trembling has disappeared from his hands, and the smile that he gives is an honest one as turns and dashes toward the stairs again, Marie and Sari's wishes of good health still ringing in his ears.

Closing the door to their apartment firmly behind him, Enjolras draws a deep breath and heads toward their bedroom, determined to do what he can to heal Grantaire's heart and soul before Joly arrives to work on his physical body.

XXX

Enjolras bursts into the bedroom, a bolt of light in the darkness, fire determined to both illuminate and change the world, and Grantaire finds himself huddling down further in shame, wishing he could crawl beneath the bed like a child rather than perching in plain view on the side of it.

How can he explain what happened? How can he make Enjolras realize that he didn't mean this, that he didn't mean for Enjolras to find him like this?

How can he tell Enjolras what he feels without Enjolras thinking him a monster?

Enjolras settles onto the bed at Grantaire's right-hand side, his arm immediately going around Grantaire's shoulders and pulling him close. He places another fire-bright kiss to Grantaire's cheek. "Tell me, Grantaire. Help me understand."

Swallowing hard, trying to keep his teeth from chattering, Grantaire studies his bloodied hand and wrist, wondering curiously why they don't hurt much. "Emile and Arianne decided not to show my paintings anymore. Arianne called, asked me to come talk with her this afternoon… I did, and that was the news they had for me. She said… that selling a bound omega's work was too much of a gray area, legally. She said… there had been threats against the gallery if they continued to show omegas' work."

Enjolras' breath hisses out in a quiet sound of anger. "Outrageous. If it isn't labeled, no one can tell omega from non-omega work. All he has to do is not tell his patrons the gender of the artist."

"But if they ask, it's illegal for him not to tell. And Arianne said…" Grantaire shivers again. "She said that it was partly our fault. She said that you were making too much trouble—that you were a rabble-rouser. That we should just be patient, just wait, and that eventually things would change."

" _Eventually_." Enjolras spits out the word as though it were poison, his lip curling disdainfully. "Oh, yes, _eventually_ they will deign to give you the rights that should be yours from the moment of birth. There is no good reason to deny consurges and women a vote, _absolutely_ no reason to deny consurges property and financial independence, and those who say we need only wait are fooling themselves and hurting others. Why should we wait, when people are being injured _now_ , when people are being abused, when people are being trapped in untenable positions, when people are _dying_ now because of these laws and the social customs that they shore up? How much blood has to be shed before the time is now? How many corpses do we need to lay at their feet before the time is ripe for change?"

Grantaire finds himself staring into Enjolras' flaming blue eyes, his mouth slightly open, not certain if he wants to laugh or cry or simply hug this wonderful, amazing, beautiful man.

Enjolras flushes, his pale skin showing the red blush to beautiful effect, but he merely tips his chin slightly higher and meets Grantaire's eyes, his expression steady and certain. "Those who are oppressed cannot afford to wait for the oppressors to hand down freedom. Besides, it's an argument that is inherently flawed—if we stop agitating for change, there will no longer be a reason for it to be granted, and nothing _will_ change. Those who tell us to wait, wait, accept and _wait_ are those who are not being hurt by the current state of events and have only their own comfort and self-interest at heart."

Lowering his eyes to his hands, Grantaire frowns at his blood-spattered left wrist and fingers. Most of the blood is drying, a spider-web trail of dark ink across his skin, a map for a mad, impossible land. "But the threats they spoke about… if there really were threats to burn the gallery, the artwork…"

"They were not our threats." Enjolras' voice falls to a softer, gentler tone as he reaches out and shifts Grantaire's hair back behind his ears. "We do not want to injure; we merely want all of our number to be treated fairly. We will defend ourselves, and if to gain fair treatment we must fight then we will fight, but the first blow has already been dealt to us. How can they blame you for actions that are not yours—for threats that are not yours? No. What occurred was a testing of their loyalties and their morals. They were willing to sell omega artwork so long as it gave them money, gave them power, but the moment they had to actually _think_ , actually _question_ , they sided only with themselves. They are the worst kind of allies, those who will nod and smile at you when the skies are fair and then lock you out in the storm at the first hint of lightning."

A bit of the knot around Grantaire's heart loosens, but not enough, not all, because there is more that Enjolras needs to know, more that he should tell, and the rest of his story will be only personal shame.

A knock sounds at the door, and Enjolras leans in to press a kiss to Grantaire's forehead. "Stay here."

There isn't time for him to protest before Enjolras is gone; there isn't time for him to worry before Enjolras is back, a steaming pot of water in his right hand, a collection of rags in his left. He takes Grantaire's left hand firmly in his, dips one of the rags into the water, and begins slowly, carefully cleaning away the blood and tiny shards of glass. His voice, when he speaks, is carefully neutral. "Tell me how this happened."

Closing his eyes, ignoring the occasional prick and flare of pain that Enjolras' ministrations causes, Grantaire thinks back on the afternoon. "After I left Emile and Arianne… I came home. I gathered a few of my paintings, tried a few other galleries and distributors, but…"

Grantaire's left fist clenches hard, sending a spike of agony up his arm, causing the charm at his wrist to bump against his skin, and his whimpering cry is drowned out only by Enjolras' hiss of dismay as fresh blood begins welling up again.

Enjolras' fingers pry between his, slowly spread his hand out, and Enjolras' eyes skewer into Grantaire as Enjolras' left hand holds Grantaire's wrist tight. This time Enjolras' voice is utterly commanding. "Do _not_ move this hand until I give you permission to. Understood?"

Grantaire nods, but Enjolras continues to stare at him. After a moment Grantaire licks his lips and whispers, "Yes."

"Good." Enjolras drops his eyes back to his work, though his left hand stays clamped around Grantaire's wrist. "You tried to find other people to sell your art; you weren't successful."

"Yes." Grantaire hunches his shoulders, frowning, somewhat put out by the succinct way in which Enjolras summarizes several hours' worth of frantic effort. "Then I… came home. I went into my art studio. I saw…"

He saw his paintings, carefully arranged, ranging in size from small cards to large canvases. He saw his friends, gazing back at him from cages that could only contain a fraction of what they are, the portraits and carefully arranged group shots flanked by more abstract works that reflected the men they surrounded.

He saw so much that he tries to say with his brush, so much that he tries to capture and understand—the easy camaraderie and love between Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta that has somehow transcended the blood and pain involved in the inception and protection of their relationship and yet is still colored by it; the sharp, beautiful, sparking, always-evolving relationship between Enjolras and Combeferre and Courfeyrac that Grantaire loves to see; the finding of common ground and beautiful friendship in shared morals and fierceness and a deep, mutual respect that Grantaire had had to learn not to be jealous of between Enjolras and Feuilly; the fierce, sharply intelligent flare that Bahorel throws into all he does, and the way Jehan both gravitates to and refracts that energy; the way a crowd can be both terrifying and uplifting, a horrific, uncontrolled mob or a glorious moment of unified purpose and sensibility; the stubborn, not-so-fragile hope for a better future that these men both embody and nurture in others.

So much he wants to share with others, and he knows he only ever captures a fraction of what he wants to say in his colors and his brush strokes, but he had thought it was enough. He had thought, for a while, that it could be part of his contribution to the cause—his contribution to his and Enjolras' financial survival, as well.

But it was all a dream, a foolish, useless dream.

"I thought to destroy them." Grantaire's right hand clenches hard on the fabric of his trousers, though he makes sure not to move his left. "Since they were pointless… but I couldn't. I couldn't… and then there was the mirror, the one I use to study positioning when I need guidance on something, and I… saw myself."

Saw himself as others see him now, visibly, obviously pregnant, the band around his wrist displaying the name of his owner, clearly omega, powerless, _useless_ , and is it any wonder that no one wants his paintings?

"I broke the mirror." Grantaire glances at his hand, at the criss-crossing cuts that Enjolras' careful ministrations have revealed. "I punched it… many times. And then… I don't know. I don't remember clearly."

Then he cried. Then he collapsed in the middle of his now-pointless studio, the place he has always felt most comfortable, most safe, most _himself_ , and he cried as his fingers clawed uselessly at the band around his wrist because he couldn't bring himself to hurt either the paintings or the little ones struggling constantly toward life within him.

The paintings and the children are innocent, after all.

He's crying again, silently, a steady, useless slide of tears down his face, and he goes to wipe them away and finds that he can't.

Sometime during his recitation Enjolras moved, is holding him tightly, his embrace so fierce it should hurt, but it doesn't, and Grantaire allows himself to relax into Enjolras' arms, his body molding itself to the now-familiar contours of his _conscia_ eagerly.

After a bit Enjolras pulls back, and there are tears in his blue eyes, as well. His hands slide over Grantaire's body, up Grantaire's shoulders, up his neck, cup the back of his head, and then Enjolras leans forward and begins kissing him.

Enjolras starts at Grantaire's forehead, but it feels as though his lips caress and anoint every inch of Grantaire's face and neck as Enjolras works his way down to the top of Grantaire's shirt. Enjolras' hands massage in small circles from the top of Grantaire's scalp all the way down to the small of his back, releasing tension in muscles Grantaire didn't even know he _had_ , and then Enjolras is off the bed again and kneeling before him, his hands gently sliding their way around Grantaire's body until they rest atop Grantaire's pregnancy-swelled abdomen.

"I love you." Enjolras' voice is utter certainty, a clarion trumpet of truth, and his blue eyes burn steadily into Grantaire. "I love _you_ , Grantaire. Pregnant or not, omega or female or beta or alpha, I would love _you_. These miracles that you carry, I will be happy to raise them and love them with you, but they do not change or impact the way that I love _you_. And one day soon—not _eventually_ , not when it will be _comfortable_ , but as soon as I can _make it happen_ —the rest of the world will understand and respect that."

( _I love I protect I defend I love_ )

Grantaire gasps in a breath that comes out as a sob, throwing himself at Enjolras and overbalancing them both into a tangle of arms and legs on the floor. He doesn't care, and from the way that Enjolras clutches at him and kisses him he suspects that Enjolras doesn't care, either.

"You will continue painting." Enjolras whispers the words into his ear. "And we will find a way to sell your work. There are markets aside from the usual, respected ones."

"As long as I can paint." Grantaire shivers, the ecstasy fading away as he remembers one last sin of his. "But Arianne said… she said that I won't have time to paint, that the children will take it all, and—"

"No." Enjolras' negation is firm. "The children will take time from both of us, I'm certain, but you will still have time to paint, and I will still have time to work—hopefully paid work, in a society where I will not be ashamed to argue for the law. This will change our lives, but I will not allow either of us to sacrifice that which is most important to our happiness."

"It isn't…" Grantaire clears his throat. "Is it selfish, to _want_ my artwork so badly?"

Enjolras considers for a long moment, his eyes turned to the ceiling, his hands rubbing small circles on Grantaire's back again, relaxing the muscles that his pregnancy has a tendency to make tense and sore. "In the most basic definition, I suppose it is selfish. But I think it better to call it human. We all need to communicate. We all need to connect with others, to feel ourselves connected to the world. I do this with words and politics; you do it with art and friendship. Neither is better or worse than the other, I don't think, and if we were to try to cut ourselves off from it… we have to be happy, Grantaire. We have to be _healthy_ and _whole_ in mind and in spirit to raise children properly. I will not stop setting pen to paper because I am a father; I will not expect you to stop turning to your paint when you've something that needs to be said. We simply won't be able to do it at the same time anymore."

"It doesn't…" He shouldn't need this reassurance. He shouldn't ask for it.

"It doesn't make you a bad parent. It doesn't make me love you less." Enjolras presses a quick kiss to the tip of Grantaire's nose. "It may even be a blessing in disguise, having these conversations now, so that we can be prepared to know what the other can and cannot sacrifice when the time comes."

"A blessing." Grantaire gives a brief, black bark of laughter. "Our bank account won't think it so. Art supplies are expensive."

"We tend to be rather frugal otherwise. Besides, my father is about to be a grandfather." A brief, sharp smile flits across Enjolras' face. "There had been complaints about his financial support of me being only a thin premise by which he could funnel funds into questionable politics—questionable only to others, not to he or I. But no one can begrudge a man the financial support of his grandchildren, especially when the sire is at the top of his class in school and the consurge is, per legal statute, unable to work."

"Enjolras." Grantaire finds himself shaking his head even as he returns Enjolras' wolfish grin. "You can be a very frightening and calculating man sometimes."

"Only because I have to be." Enjolras' hands come to rest once more on Grantaire's belly. "Only because they—and you—and all the others like them and you need me to be."

"Ahem."

Grantaire and Enjolras both glance up at the unexpected sound.

Joly stands at attention in the doorway to their bedroom, his eyes dancing in amusement. "I was told you were injured, Grantaire, and the smell and sight of blood would seem to bear that out, but if the two of you would prefer I wait for a few minutes outside…"

"No." Enjolras slithers out from under Grantaire and into a seated position far too quickly.

Moving more slowly, acutely aware of the swell of his pregnancy, Grantaire tries to settle into a respectable seated position.

"Though there's one more thing I need to do before Joly treats you." Enjolras' left hand lashes out, snatches Grantaire's left wrist before Grantaire can move. A blade appears in Enjolras' right hand, the shiny silver surface reflecting Grantaire's startled expression.

And then, before Grantaire can move, Enjolras has slipped the blade between Grantaire's skin and the black leather band and, in one smooth motion, cuts it free.

Grantaire stares down at the unblemished, pale skin where the band had sat, then up at Enjolras.

"This caused you to be hurt—is the brand and mark of those who hurt you." Enjolras tosses the black band down between them, sliding the blade back into a sheath cleverly hidden underneath his sleeve. "I will never leave you in a position where something can hurt you."

Joly shifts uncertainly from foot to foot. "I think it's still early to start telling the consurges to go around unbanded, Enjolras."

"Perhaps." Enjolras stands, his eyes fixed on the black band as though he could burn it away with the force of his will. "But I'm growing tired of waiting, and the time will be soon for a mass movement like that, we've all been saying it. I'm not saying you _can't_ wear the band if you're more comfortable that way, Grantaire, but remember that it _is_ just a thin strip of leather, and that I will cut it away in a heartbeat before allowing it to hurt you."

Grantaire reaches out, slowly fingers the wet leather and touches the blood-spattered star that has Enjolras' name engraved on it.

This, yes, is just a thin strip of leather.

The values that it represents, the laws that it embodies, though, _those_ Enjolras cannot simply cut away.

But with the knife of the Amis and all their supporters, perhaps all that will come away just as cleanly and easily.

Slipping the band into his pocket, Grantaire nods to Enjolras and holds his arm out to Joly for treatment.

He cannot say he will not doubt himself again, will not flinch in fear before the changes in his life that his bonding and pregnancy will bring. But with Enjolras' faith and the love of the rest of the Amis to support him, Grantaire can, perhaps, allow himself to hope that despite the odds the future will be bright.


	7. A Time to Rend

"If we're going to act, now is the time to do it."

Enjolras can hear the finality and certainty in his own voice, the simple sentence seeming to ring and echo and cloak every surface and sink into every corner of Combeferre's small apartment.

Courfeyrac sits at Combeferre's desk, a pen dancing between the fingers of both hands, his expression thoughtful but not contradictory.

"No." Combeferre is sitting next to Enjolras on Combeferre's bed, his legs drawn up under him, and he shakes his head slowly as he contemplates the throw-rug on his floor. "I still don't think it's time yet for something that… extreme."

"If not now, when?" Enjolras keeps any hint of anger from his voice, though his frustration leeches into it. These are his friends, his allies, his lieutenants, the people he trusts most to help him make the right decision. "The people are angry. Reintroducing the law to ban pregnancy- and heat-altering medications was the worst mistake the senate could have made. The number of arrests being made for small infringements has skyrocketed over the last two weeks. We're gaining supporters faster than we ever have. If we don't strike soon, fear will overtake anger and we'll lose what momentum we've built."

"If we strike too soon, with people who aren't prepared, who don't know how to respond to police brutality and aggression, we risk losing the whole _movement_ if things go badly." Combeferre runs his right hand over the stubble on his jaw. They've all been keeping long hours during the last three weeks. "I don't want to see everything fall apart because we move too quickly."

"I don't want to see everything fail because we move too _slowly_." Launching to his feet, Enjolras paces the too-cramped confines of Combeferre's bedroom. "We've had two dozen senators promise their assistance in any move we make, provided we make it soon; I trust about half of them to actually hold to their word. Almost all consurges are desperately frightened—even those who are happy to be bound are frightened that the ban on pregnancy-altering medications might mean fertility enhancing medications are also outlawed, and there is still a segment of the population who believes a consurge who can't conceive is useless."

He hates saying the words, hates that they will use the fear and superstition of those who don't truly understand or agree with what they are fighting for, but if it will bring the world one step closer to what it should be—

"Would you use Grantaire?"

They're the first words Courfeyrac has spoken in several minutes, the usually garrulous conscia having kept his own council since Enjolras proposed bold action, and they freeze Enjolras in his tracks, affirmation and denial both struggling to spring from his mouth at the same time.

Courfeyrac smiles at him, a gentle, understanding smile, and carefully sets the pen on the desk behind him before turning his piercing gaze on Combeferre. "That's what you're worried about, yes? You're afraid that Enjolras isn't thinking this through clearly, that he's pushing for quick action because he wants these terrible customs to be dealt with before he has children who must be taught about them."

Combeferre sits frozen, neither affirming nor denying the allegation.

"Grantaire is nine months pregnant." Enjolras' face feels too cold, and there is a faint tremble to his hands until he presses them together in front of him. "Walking or standing for too long is a discomfort to him. Being involved in something that will takes hours if not days—"

"But will you give him the option of participating?" Courfeyrac's expression is sympathetic, but his tone and his gaze are still direct and piercing. "If we're going to ask others to participate in something like this, to take this risk, they'll want to know why you won't risk it yourself."

"I will risk what is reasonable!" Enjolras snaps out the words, taking a step toward Courfeyrac before forcing himself to stop. The closer Grantaire gets to term, the more tense and irritable Enjolras has become with everyone but Grantaire, a fact that he _hates_ and wishes he could change. Sometimes being conscia is as much a detriment as it is a gift. Lowering his head, slowing his breathing, Enjolras forces his hands to unclasp, imagining the irrational anger dissipating with the motion. When he raises his eyes to meet Courfeyrac's, it's with an abashed, apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. What I mean is that I will be risking myself—I will be there, no matter when we make our move. But I will not order Grantaire to be."

"But you will give him the option of being there, yes?" Combeferre speaks sharply, sitting up straighter on the bed. "You, of all people, know it's a decision he has to make for himself."

"He'll know. I'm going to speak with him. And if he does decide to participate…" Enjolras swallows hard, his stomach twisting. There is a part of him that wants to say _no_ , say he will not risk Grantaire, but that isn't his choice to make. And keeping Grantaire physically safe at the cost of his freedom… well, Enjolras still thinks, sometimes, that he can smell blood in their apartment, though he's cleaned all the rooms where Grantaire bled multiple times. "We'll do what we can to keep him safe, as we will all the others."

"But we might not be able to protect them, if things go badly." Courfeyrac sighs, rubbing at his temples. "They might be imprisoned—if it becomes a riot, there might be worse injuries. No children at this one, if we do it. And we'll have to make sure everyone who comes has at least some training, knows when to strike back and when not to. Having a conscia or consurge attack the police without enough provocation would work directly against us rather than for us."

"But if we have the press there… if we notify them in advance…" Combeferre licks his lips. "It will be very risky, Enjolras."

"It will be risky whenever it happens. But I think the time is now." Enjolras settles on the bed beside Combeferre, placing his arm over the vexillum's shoulders. "And though I understand why you would fear Grantaire's… situation could sway my judgment, I promise that it isn't compromising my dedication to or thinking about the cause."

"It's never your dedication we doubt." Courfeyrac slips in on Combeferre's other side, sliding his arm around Combeferre's waist. "And I would hesitate to say he or I really doubt your thinking, but there are going to be those who say you are… compromised, now, by your situation."

"No more compromised than I was before—we've always been working for the rights of our friends and lovers, for Musichetta, Eponine and Cosette, for Marius, Prouvaire, Bossuet, Grantaire." His voice catches slightly on his consurge's name, and Enjolras finds himself tightening his hold on Combeferre's shoulder. "Though, in the interests of full disclosure… it is more frightening, having Grantaire like this, knowing that any hazard to him will be a hazard to our unborn children as well. Knowing that if we _don't_ succeed, they'll inherit our problems."

"We'll keep them safe. We'll do our best to keep everyone safe." Combeferre's hand slides over, pats gently at Enjolras' knee. "Which is more my problem now, I think, than any compromise on your part. I… don't know how fair or right it is to risk you now, when you're going to be needed by Grantaire very shortly."

Enjolras closes his eyes, imagining Grantaire without him and with children to care for. A shudder runs the length of his body, a soul-deep negation of the concept. "I will not allow any harm to come to myself. But I _can't_ not be involved with this. To do nothing… to allow these wrongs, wrongs that have _directly hurt_ Grantaire and our other friends, to go unchecked… and if anything did happen to me, to one of us, the rest will be there to help each other, yes?"

"Yes. The survivors would certainly pull together. And you…" Combeferre studies him, an expression akin to pain sliding across his face. "To ask you not to act would be to ask you to contradict who you are, I know that. So if you're certain that now's the time to strike… Courfeyrac?"

"Enjolras has very valid points about timing. The level of agitation in the streets and among the general populace is astronomical, and the police response is only making things worse. While it may be appealing to the church and to the most conservative base, these proposals are horrifying to a great many people." Courfeyrac presses his lips together and then lets out a noisy sigh. "I think the day of and the day after the vote are going to be the most volatile. That will give us five days to organize our allies and reach out to any others who are interested in joining us. And I think if we don't seize this opportunity, if we let it slide by, we'll be thinking about it for the next decade, every time we scrounge for a scrap of progress."

"Then, if the two of you would deign to stop crushing me with affection—really, I swear the conscia are worse than the consurges as pregnancy proceeds—" Combeferre extricates himself from Courfeyrac and Enjolras' hold, not without suffering a few grinning moments of tickling from Courfeyrac, and kneels to pull a box from under the bed. "I believe, gentlemen, that we have a protest to plan."

XXX

Grantaire lowers himself onto the bed with a groan. He settles first onto his back, but his bladder immediately tells him that he has to pee. Given that he went not fifteen minutes ago, he's certain that isn't true. Inching his way up the bed until his head is lying on his pillow, he rolls onto his right side, alleviating the feeling of impending bed-wetting.

The bed creaks as Enjolras, apparently having abandoned whatever work of political malfeasance he was frowning down at when Grantaire last saw him, settles down next to him.

"How did the painting go?" Enjolras whispers the word into Grantaire's ear, Enjolras' body pressing itself against Grantaire's back, a comforting warmth.

"Better, today." Grantaire smiles, shifting minutely so that their bodies are aligned more comfortably together even as he closes his eyes. It's blessedly simple to get comfortable. He's been wearing only a knee-length nightgown all day, not having wanted to go to the trouble of changing when he didn't have to go outside. "I'm almost done with the one of Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta—I should be able to have it framed and ready to present to them for their anniversary."

It's a sweet portrait, Musichetta sitting on Joly's lap, reading aloud from one of the manuscripts for their plays that Joly and Bossuet usually have on them at all times. Her face is pulled into a pseudo-serious grimace. Joly reaches for the papers, heat flaming high in his cheeks, while Bossuet is doubled over in the seat next to Joly, laughing and waving his hand in an encouraging motion.

It had been a wonderful scene to see, and Grantaire is happy to have captured at least a fraction of what made it so delightful.

Enjolras' arm slides around Grantaire's waist, Enjolras' hand spreading to cover a bare fraction of Grantaire's enormous, pregnancy-rounded stomach. Grantaire allows his own hand to drift down, his fingers sliding over Enjolras'. Taking Enjolras' wrist in a gentle grip, he shifts Enjolras' hand to a spot slightly higher and to the left. "Here. One of the little ones was kicking rather furiously just about here ten minutes ago."

There's a slight hitch to Enjolras' breathing, a hesitation and then a rushed exhalation, and Grantaire feels his smile widening. He doesn't need to see Enjolras' face to know the expression on it, the wonder and joy that turns the banked fire in Enjolras' blue eyes to something less intimidating but no less fierce whenever he's presented with something related to their children.

Enjolras' right hand moves to gently massage the muscles of Grantaire's back, perpetually stiff these days from carrying the added weight of pregnancy. Enjolras' left hand stays still, never moving from where Grantaire placed it. "Have your erstwhile doctors agreed yet on how many children we're having?"

"No." Grantaire gives a brief snort of laughter and, as if in response to the movement, a wave of fluttering kicks runs through his abdomen. "There! Ah, gentle, little ones, don't dance on my bladder, you've already compressed it enough. Not that I begrudge you the room, but I'll really be quite happy when you've exited your current abode and I am free to eat, drink, and pee on a normal time-table again. As for a more lengthy response to your question, Enjolras… no, they can't agree. Combeferre is quite certain he hears only three heartbeats; Joly swears he hears a fourth at times. All I hear when they place the stethoscope in my ears is the rumbling of my displeased intestines as they try to work around the overly-large monstrosities, however many of them there are, so I am not of much assistance to them."

"Is it too uncomfortable for you, being like this?" Enjolras' right hand continues its ministrations of Grantaire's back muscles while his left slides gently over the length and breadth of Grantaire's pregnancy, caressing gently through the thin nightgown.

Grantaire shivers, feeling his nipples tighten. Part of it is Enjolras' presence and attention, something that has always been able to put Grantaire on edge; part of it is simply his body being overly-sensitive to any stimulation. Wearing a normal shirt yesterday had been rather uncomfortable, his nipples aching for the majority of the day. The skin around his nipples is decidedly swollen now, small but what will be exceedingly functional breasts having formed. At least he isn't leaking milk, as some consurges—and women, he supposes—have the misfortune to do during the last portion of their pregnancy.

"Grantaire?" There's alarm in Enjolras' voice, and Enjolras' arms tighten around him protectively.

"Hm?" Grantaire opens his eyes, half-turning to his conscia. "Oh, right. This… ah, I'm not sure how to describe it. There are unpleasant parts, certainly—my back has muscles that I will now never forget exist though I wish we had never become so intimately acquainted. I hate how often I'm hungry and how little I can eat at a time, and you heard my small rant about the bathroom. But at the same time… it's… I like feeling them within me, Enjolras. I like feeling their small movements. I like knowing that they're _ours_ , yours and mine, and that I'm giving them _life_ , that I'm… being useful."

"You are useful in many ways, love, none of them having to do with procreation." Enjolras' lips nuzzle at Grantaire's neck, his left hand continuing its exploration of Grantaire's swollen abdomen. "But I'm pleased to hear it isn't a totally unpleasant experience."

"It isn't. I think… I will be happy when they are born, and my body looks more like… well, like _me_ , like I'm used to looking." Grantaire turns over slowly, trying not to feel like some kind of beached ocean creature. His stomach protrudes ridiculously far, but Enjolras' face shows only awe as he curls his body around Grantaire again, his flat abdomen warming Grantaire's rounded one, his trouser-clad legs tangling with Grantaire's naked ones. Using his right hand, Grantaire pulls Enjolras' face closer to him and kisses him softly on the lips, savoring the taste of Enjolras' smile. "But you, my rebel leader, you have made all of this worthwhile. Your awe where others would show disgust; your concern; your fierce defense of my rights and my body and our children's future… because it's _you_ , because it's _us_ , I am happy to have these children, and may even consider going through this again. Though not for a very long time. And not until I've proved to us both that I'm not going to irrevocably damage this lot."

"You are going to make a fine father." Enjolras' hand has found its way to the side of Grantaire's swollen abdomen, is caressing again at the flesh that nurtures and guards their future.

Silence falls between them, but it's not the easy silence that Grantaire associates with their nighttimes. There is still tension in the thin line between Enjolras' eyebrows, some distraction lurking behind that calm blue gaze.

"All right, out with it." Grantaire levers himself up on his elbow, cradling his stomach into a more comfortable position, trying to ignore the newest flurry of movement inside him. One of these children, at least, is going to be quite the acrobat. "What is it that we need to talk about and you're not sure how to bring up?"

Enjolras blinks, clearly startled, and then gives a wry smile. "Am I that easy to read?"

"We've been spending a great deal of time together lately." Every night, and any day that they can, though Grantaire has been staying home more and more lately, not liking to be on his feet for long periods, not liking the way others stare at him, not liking the feel of the charm clasped around his wrist. Better to be home, where he can wear what he wants, do what he wants, leave the black band sitting on the nightstand where it belongs, and trust that Enjolras will come home to him. Sometimes after midnight, but still, home to _him_. "It's given me some insights into how to read your moods."

"All right, then." Enjolras' eyes drop to Grantaire's belly. "We're going to discuss it at the general Amis meeting tomorrow, but most are already working on setting it in motion, and it's something the two of us should talk about beforehand. So… there's going to be a protest. A large one—the largest one we've had to date, I think. It will be in front of the Senate building, after—"

"After the vote." Grantaire swallows down a swell of sudden nausea, remembering another reason he doesn't want to go out more than he has to these days. Priests and conservative laymen have been out in force lately, pushing for a ban on 'unnatural and impious methods of avoiding proper and holy familial units'. The first time one of them pointed to Grantaire's pregnancy and proclaimed it a gift from the gods for properly submitting to the natural and holy order of the world and knowing his place as a receptacle for children, Grantaire punched the man—vexillum, he thinks, though the vexillum may have been the second one, the one that Bahorel punched, and Grantaire's first vocal assailant a conscia. The third time it happened, Enjolras had seemed on the verge of violence, and Grantaire, not wanting to see his conscia handcuffed _again_ , not when the penalties for social agitation have been steadily increasing in both harshness and length, had hastily intervened to protect a man he despised. "You're going to be there?"

"Of course." Enjolras seems surprised by the question, and then ashamed of his surprise, his eyes darting away before being resolutely brought back to meet Grantaire's. "Would you prefer I not go?"

"I… no." This time it's Grantaire who gives the wry smile, though his voice catches on a lump in his throat. To tell Enjolras not to go now would be just as harsh if not harsher than what Arianne had suggested months that seem like ages ago. Enjolras' soul lives to fight injustice, and though Grantaire shudders at the thought of anything happening to him, he shudders more at the thought of Enjolras caged by Grantaire's fears, unable to do what he wills and what the world needs. "You'll be safe as you can be, yes?"

"Of course." Enjolras' smile is still radiant, even after so long, a flash of light to drive out the darkest pockets of fear and anxiety. Enjolras leans forward and kisses Grantaire's forehead. "We shall all be careful. But what I wanted to discuss with you is… what are your plans?"

"Plans?" Grantaire blinks, then sits up as quickly as he can. "Enjolras, I'm nine and a half months _pregnant_! What do you _think_ my plans are? I can't… I mean… Golden Lady, I could end up having our children _in the middle of a protest_!"

"Yes." Enjolras grimaces, shoving a hand back through his blond hair, looking rather dismayed. "That… would probably not be the safest place to have them. Well, then, I'll tell Courfeyrac I talked with you and that the only medically reasonable thing for you to do is stay home—stay safe."

"Courfeyrac?" Grantaire suddenly feels rather lost. "Why—"

"He and Combeferre were afraid I would try to keep the decision from you—ridiculous, of course. I'm trying to gain you your independence, not pull it out from under you." Enjolras pulls his knees up in front of him, resting his head on them in a gesture that looks strangely… young and vulnerable. "And there were some… concerns raised that your not being present would be taken by others to mean I didn't have faith in the action, that I wasn't willing to risk as much as they were, but as you said, it only makes medical sense for you to stay home."

There is a torn hesitancy to Enjolras' tone, and the smile that he offers Grantaire is strained, not quite certain.

Enjolras doesn't know if those who would malign him are right.

Enjolras wants him safe, out of harm's way, but Enjolras also wants to do what is best for the future, for their world, for the children that they will soon be bringing into this world, and he doesn't know if keeping Grantaire home is truly due to Grantaire's situation or simply Enjolras prioritizing his own desires—the bone-deep conscia urge to keep his consurge and their children _safe_ —over the needs of the many.

It's funny, in a way, because Enjolras would never begrudge Joly making this decision, or Courfeyrac if he ever took a consurge. He can accept his friends' prioritizations, will always give them the benefit of the doubt and protect them as best he can, but he will wonder, for a long time, if he should have argued more with Grantaire.

( _How to love you save you protect you love you how_ )

And because Enjolras is wondering, Grantaire will wonder, as well. He will wonder if he simply took the easy way out. He will wonder if he simply continued to hide from the world as he has hidden for the last month—if he tried to make of the emancipation movement what Enjolras has helped him make of his binding charm, a strip of identity that he can don and put aside as needed, the clasp that holds it to his wrist all too visible to anyone who truly wished to look.

"How important is this rally?" Grantaire looks into his conscia's grave blue eyes, already knowing the answer.

"Very important. I think it will be the defining moment of the movement for years to come. I think we will see the populace soar… or we will see a set-back that will take years to recover from."

Freedom… or decimation.

Victory… or a crushing defeat.

And he could ride it all out here, sheltered in his apartment.

Or he could stand at his conscia's side, risking his life and his children's lives if things go badly, but allowing them to stand _together_ , to stand united for this cause that directly affects all of their lives.

Both hands pressed to his pregnant abdomen, Grantaire meets Enjolras' eyes evenly, his jaw set in determination. "Give me a moment to call Joly and ask some questions. Depending on his answer… if you will permit it, I will be honored to stand at your side."

"You are always permitted at my side, Grantaire." Enjolras takes one of Grantaire's hands in his, presses his other hand to Grantaire's abdomen. "And I will do my best to see us all home safe, in a better, more just world."

XXX

The gathering begins in a park a half-mile from the senate building.

The atmosphere is electric, sharp excitement overlaying a dark undercurrent of anger and a hint of fear. Hope and camaraderie are far stronger than the fear, though, at least for now, and Grantaire finds it easy to blend in with the crowd, to follow as Enjolras makes his way through the protestors, talking to as many as he can. Grantaire even occasionally manages to add his own voice to the susurrus, both in jest and in utter sincerity.

Grantaire estimates that about a third of those present are consurges, a third are female, and that the rest is an even split between vexillum and conscia. It's more support from other genders than there was during the last discussion of discontinuing heat-suppressing medications—and a far larger outpouring of people, period.

The march begins once news of the vote is brought by Gavroche—a vote in favor of outlawing the medications, the vote they were expecting.

He doesn't know who begins the chanting. He just knows that all take it up, a drumbeat of sound that seems to echo in his bones and sink into his heart.

Equality.

Liberty.

Fraternity.

Equality.

Liberty.

Fraternity.

And then they turn the corner, into the square in front of the Senate building, and Grantaire's breath catches in his throat.

He thought they had a large crowd already. He thought they had enough people to possibly, maybe, make a difference.

And they are only a fraction of those pouring into the square.

They come from every street. They come in a solid mass of people, mingling and merging, becoming an ocean set to sweep away the terrible reality they live in and replace it with something that is at least _slightly_ less terrible.

There are more people than will fit into the square, a crowd that stretches out like the legs of a spider or the stingers of a jellyfish or the arteries of a fierce, determined heart from this central rallying point.

There is a police barricade in front of the doorway to the Senate building, a line of white-faced, terrified vexillum who hold batons at the ready. The crowd pays them no heed, as Enjolras and the other orchestrators of this demonstration had instructed, staying the legal ten paces away from them.

They have something else planned, something more important, and as he meets Enjolras' radiant eyes Grantaire knows that what he thought is true.

Today will be a day that the world is either remade or broken.

The podium is a collection of crates, carefully arranged together, carried by volunteers. The chanting continues as the podium is created, but once Enjolras climbs atop it silence spreads out in concentric circles, a waiting, pensive, eager silence of expectation.

"Citizens." Enjolras turns slowly as he speaks, addressing the whole crowd. He gives a brief pause between each sentence, allowing his words to be repeated and transmitted back through the crowd to those who can't hear him. "I call all who are gathered here today _citizens_ , though those within our government will not. The vote they have taken today is about more than one medication, whose use should be left up to the individual. It is about the status of our friends, our family, our children—ourselves, for many of you. It is about who is and who is not considered fully responsible, fully adult… fully in control of their own lives. It is about whether or not one man can claim another as his property, be that other female or consurge. It is about the right to life—to work, to travel, to homes, to education, to property, to a vote. Those in there have just said, once more, that anyone who is not born conscia or vexillum is lesser—though any vexillum will tell you that what they truly mean is anyone who is not born conscia is lesser. They do this despite the evidence of their own eyes. They do this despite the evidence of their own hearts—do they not have friends, children, lovers who they have been systematically betraying and oppressing with these laws?"

A murmur runs through the crowd, a hiss of acquiescence, of expectation.

"We have written requests, pleas, treatises. We have held protests, rallies, demonstrations." Enjolras has to hold up a hand for silence as the anger erupts into competing declamations of all the work that has been done before. "We have done all in our power to make them understand the consequences of their actions, and that the will of the people— _all_ people—is not with them in these actions. And here, today, we will do so once again."

Enjolras turns to him, extends a hand downward, and Grantaire tries to remember how to breathe as he is assisted up onto the podium with his conscia.

"This is Grantaire. Some of you are familiar with him already." Enjolras' left hand has a death-grip on Grantaire's right hand, a sign of fear or hesitancy that isn't obvious in his voice or face. "He is a consurge. He has been kind enough to accept me as his conscia. We are expecting children."

A wave of laughter runs through the crowd, a nervous exclamation punctuated by cries of congratulations and sarcastic comments about the obviousness of that fact.

"Because he loves me, because I love him, our government has declared him my _property_." Enjolras spits out the word as though it tasted vile, and Grantaire knows there is no lie in the hatred that sweeps across his conscia's visage and is then pushed aside. Enjolras lifts Grantaire's left hand, displaying the black band with its star-charm engraved with Enjolras' name. "This is their mark—not mine, not his, not ours, _theirs_. And we, like all of you, will not accept it."

The blade is small, thin, far smaller than the one that Enjolras used to cut the band once before but no less sharp. With a swift flick of Enjolras' wrist the black band is severed again, in a new place, and falls away, the tinkle of the charm as it strikes their makeshift podium not audible over the sound of the thousands watching with bated breath.

Enjolras presses the small blade into Grantaire's hand before turning back to the crowd. "Free yourself; free your neighbors; free your lovers and your family and your friends from the confinement that others would impose on all of us. We will not wear their collars and markers anymore. We will not obey their unjust laws. They can try to turn us away from voting; we will continue to vote. They can try to deny the humanity and agency of every person here, for one reason or another, but we know, and we will share, that we are all equal, and thus deserving of respect and rights."

Enjolras and Combeferre help Grantaire clamber down from the stage, Combeferre keeping a fierce grip on Grantaire until Grantaire verbally affirms that he's fine and stable and, though his back hurts, definitely _not_ going into labor right there.

And then Combeferre and Enjolras step back, just a small amount of space, but it's enough to leave Grantaire surrounded by a crush of consurges, fingers wrapped around neck and wrist bands, asking him to declare and validate their freedom.

He cuts the bands of those nearest to him, trying not to fumble with the blade and cut anyone, though the one consurge he does slice open doesn't seem to notice the thin trickle of blood from his neck as he tosses the band away as though it were a viper. Others simply stare in awe at the black leather, holding it uncertainly in their hands or allowing it to fall heedless to the ground; still others, those more prepared, turn to their neighbors once they are free, produce small, sharp objects of their own, and the wave of liberation flows back through the crowd.

It is illegal.

It is blatantly, inarguably illegal for a consurge to go unbanded, punishable by years in prison and hefty fines, but there is a fierce sense of rightness and unstoppable momentum to the crowd anyway as black consurge bands join the bright gold of women's wedding rings and wedding wristlets on the ground.

Grantaire meets Enjolras' eyes, and for one glorious moment Enjolras smiles at him, and Grantaire is certain that everything is going to be fine, that the government will see what is happening, see how inexorable it is, and finally acquiesce to equality.

" _Plainclothes!_ "

It's Gavroche who starts the cry, the child's voice raised to carry above the exultant murmuring of the crowd. " _Cops! Plainclothes! In the crowd!_ "

Gavroche's small voice almost immediately collides with a rushing cry of _guardsmen_ surging up from one of the side streets, and within seconds everything begins unraveling.

A shot is fired. Grantaire spins to Enjolras, knowing that Enjolras' bright-blond head and carrying voice will have made him a target.

Enjolras is still standing, uninjured.

But Combeferre is holding to Enjolras with white-knuckled fists, his face pale, and the spread of red across Combeferre's waistcoat and over Enjolras' hands stops Grantaire's heart.

He tries to make his way to Enjolras. He screams Enjolras' name, though he knows it won't help, won't be heard, will be drowned out by the cries of a crowd that is already moving, tearing itself in two as some struggle to run towards the fight and some away. The momentum of the crowd pushes him farther and farther from Enjolras, and Grantaire, acutely aware of his pregnancy, trying to guard his belly from wayward elbows, feet, and fists, fears that any force he applies will be returned to him twice over.

But if allows himself to be separated from the Amis—

" _Grantaire!_ "

The voice is wonderfully, gloriously familiar, and Grantaire turns, scanning the crowd, trying to find where Bahorel is.

"Remember your orders!" The deep, unfamiliar voice seems to come from right beside him, and Grantaire shies away from it instinctively, recognizing the tones of authority. "Take the leaders, if you can! Use whatever force is necessary!"

Grantaire's eyes finally land on Bahorel, the fierce vexillum sparring with what must be a plainclothes officer while bodies careen into the fighting pair from all sides.

Grantaire needs to run.

He needs to get out of the press of people.

He needs at least one of the Amis with him, to help him stay focused, stay calm, and he cannot abandon a friend in a fight.

He barely has to do anything. His battle-yell as he charges at Bahorel's opponent is enough to draw the conscia's attention, and apparently the incongruity of being attacked by a very pregnant omega is enough to freeze the man in his tracks. Before he can recover Bahorel has knocked him to the ground with a swift blow to the back of the head, and ensured that he will stay there with a few follow-up kicks.

They have probably left the man to die. The thought floats through Grantaire's mind as Bahorel's hand closes on his elbow and the vexillum begins guiding him through the crowd. By incapacitating the man and leaving him on the ground amidst the milling crowd, they have probably consigned the conscia to death.

"—damn them, firing into a crowd like this, we were prepared for the worst but _this_ —are you hurt?" Bahorel tugs on Grantaire's arm, managing to provide guidance and protection as they squeeze their bodies through the gaps that form and dissipate in the crush of people like fog in the early morning. "Enjolras will flay me alive if you're hurt, it was the one thing he requested of me, keep an eye on you, don't allow anything to happen to you—"

"I'm fine." Grantaire swallows, cataloguing his aches and bruises and realizing that it's true, that he really is all right. "But I saw Combeferre hit, and Enjolras—do you know where he is?"

"Falling back, if he can, if he's sticking to the plan, to where Eponine, Cosette, Feuilly and the rest should be handing out better weaponry." Bahorel continues to pull Grantaire to the east. "Don't worry. I'll get you to safety, and then I'll go help him. It's almost a blessing, in a way. This kind of backlash means—"

Grantaire doesn't even hear the report.

That's the most terrible thing, really, that he doesn't even hear the report. One moment Bahorel is talking to him; the next Bahorel is on the ground, a mask of red coating his face, blood pooling on the paving stones beneath him, and it takes Grantaire longer than it should to realize that his friend has been shot.

He drops into a crouch, not daring to actually kneel, trying to keep his back to the flailing limbs of the crowd, and searches for a pulse.

He hasn't found one before hands are grabbing him, lifting him with no gentleness.

He blocks the baton thrust aimed at his stomach.

That gives him no chance to block the blow aimed for his head, and the world fades out in a wash of red and black stars and the senseless roaring of the frenzied crowd.


	8. Climbing to the Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for attempted rape and threats of torture in this chapter.

Grantaire wakes, sputtering, under a deluge of cold water.

His head aches, pounding in time to the rapid, skittering beat of his heart. His hair is plastered to his face, but he doesn't dare shake his head, instead squinting around the blinding pain and the water-darkened strands to try to make out his surroundings.

The ceiling is gray. That's about all he can make out at first, and he tries to lift a hand to his face, to push the hair away and give himself more room to see, but his hands won't move.

His hands are bound, cold iron shackles holding his arms above his head, and in a moment of nauseating clarity he realizes that his shoes are gone and that his ankles are bound to the floor in front of him, leaving him stretched out, completely vulnerable.

A hand sinks into his hair, yanks his head up and forward, and he finds himself blinking and staring into the ice-gray eyes of an alpha police captain.

The man has two lower-ranking betas with him, one holding Grantaire's head up, and one who stands at the captain's side with his police baton at the ready. As though Grantaire were any threat at all like this, trussed and on display, and Grantaire's stomach clenches in terrified helplessness as the captain's eyes sweep over his pregnancy.

"Your name is Grantaire." The captain has his hands behind his back, and he speaks in a low monotone as his eyes rise again to skewer through Grantaire. "You are Enjolras' omega. You are under arrest for multiple counts of civil disobedience, including but not limited to assaulting officers and willfully destroying your identification band. The list of charges currently gives a total incarceration time of well over two life-spans."

Grantaire closes his eyes, shivering, trying not to think about what's happened to him or what might be happening outside. The others will come for him. Enjolras will find out that he's missing, and nothing will stop him from coming to Grantaire's aid.

The beta holding his hair gives him a vicious shake, sending bolts of blinding agony through Grantaire's head, and he just barely manages to turn his head enough to vomit onto the beta rather than all over himself.

The beta male curses, releasing Grantaire's head after giving him a fierce slap across the face that renews the taste of blood in Grantaire's mouth. The iron-blood taste is mildly better than the taste of bile, at least, and striking him in the face means that the man didn't strike him anywhere more sensitive.

Again a shivering flutter of terror contracts all the muscles in his abdomen, and Grantaire wipes the self-satisfied grin from his face as he tries to focus on the captain. He isn't just looking out for himself. He has to try to keep their little ones safe until Enjolras can find them and take them away from this place, away from this terrible, awful world and all the horrors within it, offer them the beauty and majesty of a land where everyone is respected, a magical utopia that will never exist but that the Amis can paint with their words and struggle so valiantly to make real with their deeds.

The captain raises his head, just slightly. "I need to know where your alpha and his people will have retreated to. I need to know where their weapon's caches are. I need to know exactly who is involved in the planning of this little revolt. If you cooperate, I can arrange for you to be transferred to an omega rehabilitation program, where you and your children will be claimed and raised by a proper alpha."

Grantaire knows he doesn't do a very good job of keeping the horror that the scenario raises in him from his face. He will never allow himself to be claimed by anyone other than Enjolras. And he can only imagine what type of alpha would want to participate in a program like that—normally omegas had no legal status or protection, and how much worse would that be if he were separated from his friends and family, a slave to be raped and used as his new owner wished?

Almost better to die.

"The other option—the less pleasant option for all involved—is for me to wrest the information from you by whatever means are necessary." The alpha takes a step forward, kneeling down so that he and Grantaire are closer to the same level. "I will not hurt or kill your children, of course. I am a true alpha."

With the captain this close, Grantaire can smell that, the sharp-dangerous scent that has been his body's read of any alpha other than Enjolras for the last two months. It's something he can overcome easily with Joly and Courfeyrac—Joly is one of his dearest friends, and it's impossible to feel threatened by Courfeyrac for long—but here, it causes another shivering clench of unease to run through his body.

The captain reaches out, rests a hand gently on Grantaire's too-obvious pregnancy, his cloud-cold eyes nailing Grantaire in place. "There are ways to torture an omega without harming the children, though. Some quite clever, in fact, especially when you're this far along. Almost to ten months, yes? Close enough that I could cut them from you without anesthesia, asking you questions all the while, and if I haven't gotten the answers that I want by the time we're done, I'll send your little ones off to an orphanage, not even telling you their gender, forever separated from you."

Grantaire's hands are clenched into useless fists, but he doesn't dare to make a noise or a move, not trusting his mouth to not betray him in one way or another.

"Choose your path, Grantaire." The captain pats Grantaire's stomach twice, gently, almost tenderly, and then stands. "Tell me what I want to know, and perhaps keep a bit of your family intact, or scream your secrets as I pry them from your useless, degenerate body."

"I will not betray him." Grantaire allows himself a slight, bitter smile as he stares up at the man who will quite possibly kill him. "I will never betray _them_. Do what you will to me, but they will remain my one and only compass star, the truth that I hold out against the horrors of your world."

"Very well." The captain looks almost regretful as he turns to the beta that Grantaire had vomited on. "Sean, go to the infirmary and have the doctor prepare a few tools for me. Try to clean yourself up while—"

The cell door swings open with a crash, and a panting young alpha leans against it. "Captain, sir, you're needed downstairs _immediately_. Colonel Guerin's orders, sir."

For a moment Grantaire thinks the captain is going to balk or strike the younger alpha. Then he draws himself up straighter and snaps off a salute. "Tell him I shall be there immediately, Lieutenant."

The boy scampers off, leaving the door open behind him, allowing Grantaire a glimpse of dark gray stones lit by flickering, poorly-installed electric lights.

The captain turns to the two beta males. "Get whatever information you can from him. If you kill him before I return, I'll see you executed for treason; if you succeed in getting anything useful, a promotion for you both. You know where command is currently headquartered."

Currently headquartered? Did that mean that there had been other headquarters? What did that mean about what was happening on the streets—were they winning, were they losing? Where was Enjolras?

Where was everyone?

Who was still alive?

Had Combeferre survived his injuries? Bahorel? Who else had fallen in that initial, unprovoked attack?

The door closes behind the captain, and Grantaire can feel the atmosphere in the room change abruptly from calm, almost staid determination to one of absolute hatred.

"Well, then." Sean grins, glancing between Grantaire and his fellow guard. "How do you feel about a promotion, Claude? Because I'm certain we can find a few ways to get the heretical bastard to talk before the captain returns."

"Sean…" Claude looks decidedly uncomfortable, hanging back by the door, not quite looking at Grantaire. "He said not to kill him, and since neither of us is a doctor maybe we should just—"

"Lots of ways you can hurt a man without killing him, just like the captain said." Sean kneels down by Grantaire's legs, pulling a dagger from his belt.

Grantaire stiffens, looking away, certain that agony is going to follow.

Instead there is the ripping of fabric, one or two brief pin-pricks of pain, and a sweeping cold that causes all the hairs on his legs to stand on end and his abdomen to once more contract uncomfortably as Sean peels away the hacked-up remains of Grantaire's trousers. Another few passes of Sean's knife, during which Grantaire doesn't dare to breathe, afraid the blade will slip in _very uncomfortable_ places, and his underclothes join his trousers as useless scraps in the corner.

Then Sean turns the knife to Grantaire's shirt, cutting the fabric from hem to collar and pushing it back from Grantaire's skin, leaving him shivering and basically naked.

Grantaire glares up at the man ogling him, trying not to let his teeth chatter too obviously. "You know that there were _buttons_ on the shirt. You didn't have to destroy it."

"Watch you mouth, freak, or I'll find better uses for the knife." Sean's eyes rove once more over Grantaire's chest, over his stomach, down past the swell of his pregnancy to Grantaire's penis. "Spread your legs, _omega_. I want to see everything you've got."

Grantaire snorts. "Unchain my ankles."

Sean's fast. Grantaire almost doesn't see him move before he feels the pinprick of the blade at his throat, and Sean once more has his hand wrapped in Grantaire's hair. "Do _not_ talk back to me, beast. I'm going to get a good look at your body, and then I think I'm going to have fun while getting information from you. The more you talk back, the more I'll make sure it hurts. Understand?"

Grantaire's stomach muscles clench along with his jaw as he gives the tiniest nod that he can, trying and failing to not prick himself on the knife.

"Good." Sean releases Grantaire's hair and takes two steps back, sheathing his dagger. Then he kneels down, grips one of Grantaire's thighs in each hand, and spreads them apart.

Grantaire shudders again, closing his eyes, trying not to think too strongly about what will happen next.

"Sick. Claude, come look at this!" A mixture of awe and disgust fills Sean's voice. "They really are a true mix of male and female. Oh, but even _better_ than that… the bastard's already wet for me!"

"Liar." Grantaire mutters the word under his breath, slitting his eyes open to glare at the beta male. There's no possible way that Sean's abuse has gotten him aroused. Though there _is_ a particular wet coldness at his crotch now that Sean has his legs pried apart… did he pee himself when he was unconscious? Fantastic. Wonderful.

"Did I hear you say something?"

The threat in Sean's voice is obvious, and Grantaire says nothing.

"That's what I thought." Sean smirks as he stands, beginning to unlace his trousers. "Well, I suppose it would make sense for all this to get you hot and bothered. You omegas like being chased and held down and dominated by your alpha, right? Well, right now there aren't any alphas available, so I'm going to have to give you what you want, and afterward you're going to give me what _I_ want."

Grantaire closes his eyes again, not wanting to see Sean's excitement.

Once again hands pry his thighs apart, and Grantaire swallows down another burst of nausea as his stomach clenches hard. Sean kneels between Grantaire's legs, pushing ever further, the chains scraping painfully at Grantaire's ankles, his joints protesting the stretching.

"Sean…" It's the first time Claude's spoken, and his voice is hesitant, uncertain. "I'm… not sure we should do this."

"Ah, come on." One of Sean's hand pushes Grantaire's prick upward, crushes it uncomfortably against his testicles. "Just put your hand over this, and it'll be like having a pregnant woman. I've heard it feels _great_ to do that. Never gotten to myself before now, though. Besides, how often are we going to get the chance to fuck an omega? With how stridently the alphas guard them, it must be a hell of a ride, right? Don't worry, I'm not stingy. I'll share him with you, turn and turn about until we've got what we need from him. No chance of killing him, right? A little sex never killed anyone."

They're going to rape him.

They're going to rape him repeatedly, until he tells them what he knows about the Amis and their set-up.

Another shudder grips his body, spreads out from his tense abdomen, the contraction of his muscles so sharp and hard that it hurts.

They're probably going to rape him even if he tells them what he knows, because that's what he _is_. That's all he's ever been to those in power, a receptacle for sperm and an incubator for children, a piece of property for the strongest alpha to claim, and everything that Enjolras ever promised him was just some fleeting dream.

Enjolras.

What is Enjolras going to say when he sees him like this, smells others on him?

Better if he could find a way to die. Better if he had never been born, and certainly better not to bring more children into this world, children who might be like him.

( _I'm coming I'm coming hold on, my love, hold on_ )

But if he's going to be raped, if he's going to be tortured, if he's going to look for a way to die, he's sure as hell not going to go silently.

"What's the matter?" Grantaire affixes his best sneer to his face as he opens his eyes and stares down at the beta male currently crushing Grantaire's penis in one hand while working himself to hardness with the other. "Isn't this how you like all your conquests, bound and helpless and male?"

"You're not _male_." Sean spits out the word. "You're _omega_. You're an abomination useful only for keeping the population up. You're good for breeding soldiers and workers and keeping alphas happy and that's _it_."

"Do I hear some jealousy?" Grantaire forces his smirk to widen. "Perhaps some worry that you aren't as talented as an alpha? Well, let me set your mind at rest: you're _not_. You're not built right. You can't tie with me or with a woman. Any woman would leave you for an alpha any day, and it's not just rules that keeps omegas only in the hands of alphas, it's _preference_. When we could have something big and satisfying like that, why would we want something like _you_?"

Grantaire clamps his legs shut with all his might, biting back a howl of blinding pain as Sean stumbles, twisting Grantaire's testicles and penis agonizingly.

Sean raises his hand, preparing to bring his fist down with all his might on Grantaire's defenseless abdomen.

Not worth it. His children aren't worth the satisfaction of getting a rise from Sean with the commonly-believed myths—myths only, because Bahorel is just as successful a lover as Enjolras, and because Grantaire would have loved Enjolras no matter what was between his legs, and because it doesn't _matter_ what gender a lover is it matters how much he _cares_.

He wants to _hurt_ Sean, somehow, want to not be a helpless victim, but not at the cost of his children, not—

Claude's hand catches Sean's fist just above Grantaire's stomach. "They're _children_. Do what you want with him; I'm not interested. Don't hurt the innocent."

"Pious godboy." Sean wrenches his arm free. His knee collides agonizingly with Grantaire's groin, and Grantaire can't keep a series of agonized whimpers locked within his teeth. "Fine. We'll see how much you like me, omega. And then we'll see how much you like other things, like my dagger or my fist or—"

The door to the cell bursts open, and a blood-covered angel of fury descends on the two vexillum guards.

Grantaire knows that's not true. He knows that Enjolras is human—that Enjolras would hate being called an angel. He knows that it is skill and not divine grace that guides Enjolras' hands and feet as Enjolras guts Claude and then slides into a deceptively easy strike that flays Sean's neck open so deeply Grantaire thinks he can see bone.

Blood, warm and slightly sticky, sprays across Grantaire's body, but Enjolras prevents Sean's corpse from falling on Grantaire, instead shoving it backward to fall in an unceremonious heap at Grantaire's feet.

Enjolras turns to the door, a saber in his right hand, a dagger in his left, and waits.

He doesn't wait long. Another half-dozen guards stream into the room, but they can only enter one at a time, two at a time for the youngest, slimmest ones, and none of them stand a chance against Enjolras' blades.

When the battle is done Enjolras is the only one left standing, a blood-streaked divine avenger who calmly swings the door to the cell shut, and Grantaire finds himself choking on a mixture of panic, relief, fear, and shame.

Then Enjolras turns, facing Grantaire properly for the first time, and Grantaire realizes that not all of the blood coating Enjolras belongs to his enemies. A deep gash runs vertically from the right side of Enjolras' forehead down to just below his nose, and only one bright blue eye assesses Grantaire's position, the space where the other eye should be a mass of clotted blood and torn muscle.

"Grantaire." Enjolras takes a hesitant step toward him, his voice choked with emotion.

Shame? Disgrace? Grantaire would hide himself, if he could, but the chains prevent it.

"Sorrow." The blades clatter to the ground as Enjolras kneels at Grantaire's side, taking Grantaire's head in both his hands. His eyes— _eye_ , only one fire-bright blue eye now—fills slowly with tears. "I am so sorry, Grantaire. I…"

( _I love I protect I failed I love_ )

"Sorry?" Somehow seeing the pain and regret in Enjolras' face helps Grantaire to forget his own. Enjolras shouldn't hurt. Enjolras shouldn't look tired or defeated or frightened. Grantaire presses himself as close as he can to Enjolras despite his bindings. "Enjolras, you are the best, most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I can't—I don't—"

He can't speak, a thousand emotions tearing his soul apart, shame and joy and pain and anger, so much _anger_ that they could hurt Enjolras like that, and sorrow and exultation and frustration, how could men _do_ things like this to each other, and for a moment he doesn't know what is him and what is Enjolras but they are both crying and he is so, so glad that Enjolras is here.

"Together." Enjolras' lips press against his, and though Enjolras tastes of blood-iron and salt-tears right now it cannot erase the distinct taste that is just him, that reads as hope and elation almost beyond comprehension to Grantaire now just as it did the very first time they kissed. "We are alive, and we are together. Everything else will fall into place with enough time and determination."

"What's happening outside?" Grantaire's eyes dart to the closed door. "What happened after they fired into the crowd? How did you find me?"

"We're winning." Enjolras' grin is feral-wolf-bright, but Grantaire can read the frustrated sorrow in his eyes. "Firing into an unarmed crowd filled with women and consurges, some of whom were pregnant, might have broken some rebellions, but not this one. We were too prepared for them. We fell back, started handing out weapons, and have been in the process of showing the government exactly how bad an idea it is to escalate a conflict to violence when seventy-five percent of the populace hates your position. It's helped that a great many people, even if they don't share our views, had friends and family in the crowd that was fired on."

Grantaire nods, swallowing a fresh lump in his throat, glad to hear that the people rallied, finally, in their own defense.

"As to how I found you…" Enjolras shrugs, his hands stroking gently along Grantaire's cheeks. "Most of those captured during the initial altercation were incarcerated here. That's why I led a strike-force. And once we were here… I just… _knew_."

Knew, as Grantaire knows with each touch of Enjolras' hands that Enjolras doesn't blame him for what happened, that Enjolras is simply glad to be reunited, that Enjolras is _certain_ , to the depths of his soul, that they will win this battle.

There are stories, even more ancient that the words that Enjolras uses for their genders, about pairs and trios and even the long-forbidden quartets who were blessed by the gods with the ability to speak without words. Grantaire has drawn some of the stories—Grantaire has incorporated sigils from the stories in some of his other works, bestowed the fairy-tale abilities on Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta, sketched hints of it into his drawings of Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac. He has never believed in them, though, as he has never believed in the gods. But maybe… on this day, of all days… "Do you… believe in soul-bonds, Enjolras?"

Enjolras hesitates, then leans forward and kisses him again, the warmth of his lips and the patter of his blood against Grantaire's skin an odd discordance. "Today, Grantaire, I will believe in anything. More importantly, though, where are you hurt? Your head, obviously, but where else—"

"You're missing an _eye_." The sentence comes out almost too accusatory, but Grantaire can't help it, a feeling of surrealism rising as the man bleeding on him asks him where he's hurt. "My head hurts a bit and they threatened a great deal of pain but in general I am fine while you are decidedly short on visi— _ow_!"

It hurts.

His body clenches, his abdomen first but then muscles in his chest and hips, some of which he's never even been sure were _real_ and not some anatomist's fantasy, and his breath rushes from him in a cry that is as much panic as pain. Why does it hurt? Did they do something to him? Did they beat him while he was unconscious? Have they hurt his children, Enjolras' children, the bright, fragile future that Grantaire has been harboring close to his heart?

"Exactly what did they do to you?" Enjolras keeps one hand on Grantaire's cheek, the other moving slowly down Grantaire's body, gently probing for injuries. "Did they… rape you? It won't change any of what I feel for you, don't worry, but if they did—"

It's just the faintest hesitation in Enjolras' voice, the tiniest tremble of his hands, but Grantaire's abdomen clenches painfully again, and a whimper escapes even as he shakes his head. "No. Not for lack of desire, but… no. Did they do something else? I was unconscious until… what, a half hour ago, I don't know, there's no way for me to tell time here and it seemed like forever and—"

"Hush, Grantaire. No panic." Somehow hearing Enjolras so stoically calm—even if Grantaire can tell from the tremble in Enjolras' hand that it's at least partly feigned—helps him to regain his composure. "I'm not finding any serious injuries. Let me check…"

Enjolras moves down Grantaire's body, kneeling between Grantaire's legs and softly urging Grantaire's thighs apart, his every touch feather-light.

It still brings bile to the back of Grantaire's throat, causes him to almost hyperventilate, and it's only when Enjolras begins stroking Grantaire's stomach, rubbing in small, tender circles like he's done ever since Grantaire's pregnancy began showing, that Grantaire is able to willingly spread his legs.

Or at least spread them as wide as the chains will allow, his ankles still sore and uncomfortable.

"Ah." Enjolras' quiet exhalation is accompanied by a smile that is somehow equal parts terror and ecstasy. "No damage, Grantaire. If I'm not mistaken—which, granted, I am no doctor, so I might be wrong—you're going into labor."

"I'm…" A sense of relief that there's nothing seriously wrong wrestles with absolute denial. "But I'm not due for a _week_. And I'm in _prison_. And I'm _shackled to the wall_. I _can't_ be going into labor!"

"Well, your body seems to be in disagreement with you there." Enjolras extricates himself from between Grantaire's bound ankles, picking up his blades. "I need to rendezvous with the rest of the strike team and get the keys to those shackles. Then we're going to get you to an infirmary, and everything's going to be fine. All right?"

No. The thought of Enjolras leaving—of Enjolras walking out the door and abandoning him in a room with eight corpses, bound and possibly on the verge of giving birth—is absolutely horrifying. Grantaire can think of no other reasonable options, though, and just having Enjolras at his side won't make the shackles magically disappear or give either of them any more knowledge about childbirth.

"Please don't be long." His voice only trembles a little bit, and he manages a smile. "I may accept giving birth in prison as a result of being bound to you, rebel angel, but I refuse to accept giving birth _alone_."

"You're not going to be alone. I promise." Enjolras opens the cell door slowly, checking up and down the corridor before flashing Grantaire a fierce hawk's grin. "I'll be back before you miss me, and by the time you're done giving birth I suspect you're not going to want to see any of the Amis again for a long time."

Grantaire manages to laugh as he watches Enjolras sprint into the hall.

He hopes that Enjolras can't hear when it turns to a half-panicked sob as another contraction rocks through his body.

Grantaire isn't like the others. He doesn't have an unlimited supply of bravery, and he fears that he's fast approaching the end of his endurance, but for Enjolras, he will try.

XXX

"Definitely in active labor." Combeferre's gloved fingers are cool, completely clinical as they poke and prod under the blanket that is currently serving to preserve what dignity Grantaire has left.

They're in a quiet corner of the school that has become the rebel's primary infirmary. Grantaire lies on one blanket, another draped over him to hide his nakedness, and Enjolras sits at Grantaire's side. Grantaire's fingernails leave half-moon imprints in Enjolras' arm as he fights down panic, Grantaire's only small consolation that he is preventing himself from drawing blood, at least.

"But dilating nicely, no signs of any trauma, and no signs that there should be any difficulty. It's not uncommon to go into a labor a week early or even a week late, so I would say that things are progressing nicely." Combeferre backs up and allows the blanket to fall down into place, stripping out of his gloves as he does. His face is a dusty gray, his smile strained with pain, and Grantaire scolds his foolish body once more for panicking.

Combeferre is a _friend_. He's examining Grantaire despite the fact that he should probably still be in bed with his own injuries. Grantaire shouldn't need to cling to Enjolras just because… just because…

Enjolras' hand smoothes over Grantaire's hair. Combeferre had insisted on at least applying a temporary bandage to Enjolras' face as soon as they had limped into the infirmary, so at least he isn't dripping blood onto random surfaces anymore. "How long do you think it's going to take?"

"Hard to say." Combeferre shrugs, settling down on the opposite side of Grantaire from Enjolras. "For some their first labor goes quickly and easily, over in two to three hours. For others, it can take over a day."

Grantaire groans, closing his eyes and riding out another wave of contractions. The contractions are becoming steadily more regular and more painful, and the thought of them strengthening and continuing on for over a day is rather horrifying.

"Just don't fight it, Grantaire." Combeferre pats his hand gently, and there is compassion in his eyes. "We'll make sure everything goes well. I'm sure Joly will be over to talk with you once he's done with surgery, and one or both of us will make sure to be keeping an eye on you at all times."

"I know." Grantaire forces his hands to relax their hold on Enjolras. "I'm just glad to be out of those shackles and back with friends—and to see you alive. I was… worried."

"So was I." Combeferre's lips twitch up into a self-deprecating smile. "When I felt the bullet hit and saw all the blood… but I was lucky. A nasty flesh wound, but it didn't hit the ribs, didn't puncture a lung, and shouldn't even leave too bad a scar, thanks to Joly's steady hands."

"Thank the gods for poor marksmen." Enjolras' words are a quiet growl, his hand suddenly tense and possessive on Grantaire's arm, and Grantaire leans his head on his conscia's shoulder, trying not to imagine the horror and fear Enjolras must have felt, his consurge missing, his best friend bleeding in his arms.

"Thank the gods indeed. I'm fairly certain they were aiming for that pretty blond head of yours, but if they had to hit one of us, I'd rather it be me. I can still mostly do my job like this, but we needed you to help rally everyone during that first hectic hour." Combeferre levers himself up slightly so that he can glare over at Enjolras. "That does _not_ mean I am giving you license to run right back out there, mind, and—"

The door to the street opens, and a fresh wave of wounded begins limping in, a motley assortment of all genders.

Combeferre and Enjolras both scramble to their feet. Then Enjolras hesitates, gaze flicking from Grantaire to the new arrivals.

"Go on." Grantaire gives Enjolras' knee a shove. "If this is going to take over a _day_ , I don't want to watch you mentally running in circles and wishing to be anywhere but at my side."

"It wouldn't be—"

"It would be. And I would be completely understanding, because if I weren't in agony every few minutes I would much rather be out there demonstrating how fierce a consurge can be. You know I'm no slouch with a weapon." A warning twinge allows Grantaire to brace himself and ride out a contraction quietly. "Go help strategize. Win the war as quickly as you can. Just… be careful."

"Yes." Combeferre frowns across at Enjolras. "We still need to get you into the surgery rotation and get that head of yours sewn up."

"You've stopped the bleeding." Enjolras frowns in return. "I don't care about scarring."

"It's about more than scarring! It's about additional trauma and infection and, yes, rather large vessels that are supposed to be protected by a globe and currently are _not_ in your case and…" Combeferre trails off, putting two fingers to his forehead and sighing. "At least promise me that if you go back to the front lines, you will do your very best not to get hit on that side of your head again."

"I was trying very hard not to get injured in the first place." Enjolras' lips turn up into a faint, knowing smile. "And if I told you to do as Joly said and simply stay seated so as not to pull any of the stitches he painstakingly put in?"

"I would tell you that as a doctor I know what my limits are, and that my injury is not as severe as yours, and that being able to help with triage will help save lives." Shaking his head, Combeferre sighs, returning Enjolras' smile. "And I know, your being involved in tactics and fighting can also save lives. So let's just agree to both be back here in an hour, at the latest, and to not acquire any more injuries if we can help it at all."

"If I can be. If I'll be more useful elsewhere… I will return as soon as I'm not needed. I promise." Enjolras leans down at Grantaire's side, his hands running over Grantaire's hair, cheeks, shoulders, neck, over his pregnancy, his touch burning heat even through the too-thin blanket. "You'll be all right?"

A smile pulls at Grantaire's mouth, a surge of absolute love and devotion that he should have such a perfect person love _him_. "So long as you come back, I'll be just fine."

Enjolras' lips press against his cheek. "I'll be back before you miss me."

"You know you failed at that last time." Grantaire shifts his head, catching his conscia's mouth in a full kiss. "As soon as you left, I missed you."

"Mm, well, I'm leaving you in better company this time." Enjolras stands slowly, with obvious reluctance. "And knowing that I have not just you but our newborn children to come back to, I'll be sure to end this revolution as quickly as I can."

XXX

"I'm going to die." Grantaire moans out the words, panting between contractions. "I'm going to die and the bastard isn't even going to notice because he's too busy trying to _save the world_ or—oh gods Combeferre it _hurts_ is it supposed to _hurt_ so much—and I understand _why_ but I want him here I— _ooooh_ —"

"It's all right, Grantaire. You're not dying. You're doing very well." Combeferre's soothing doctor voice had worked fairly well for the first five hours, but Grantaire is fast growing immune to the effects after a good twelve. "Can I check again?"

Grantaire nods, shifting from the awkward squat that Combeferre had suggested in the absence of a birthing bed or chair to sitting on the floor so that Combeferre can check his progress again. The fear and repulsion has almost completely faded, worn away under the constant strain of labor and the tender reminders of friendship that have surrounded him.

Joly has flitted back and forth between their corner and tending to the wounded. Jehan has been in and out of the infirmary a half-dozen times, always finding a moment to grin at Grantaire and share a new verse or two. Bossuet has sat with him twice, for a good fifteen minutes each time, sharing stories and explaining how he acquired various bruises. Cosette has been by with water and an offer of food, placing a hand on Grantaire's shoulder, her eyes filled with sympathy. Even Eponine stopped at his side for a moment—granted, she had a gash on her arm that she wanted Combeferre to stitch, and she had told him it was his own fault he was in this position, but still, she was a _distraction_ for a few precious minutes, and he had felt the camaraderie in her touch on his shoulder when she told him not to die of foolish things during the revolution.

But Enjolras hasn't been back. Granted, none of the _others_ who are on the front line and have avoided injury have been back, either, and he doesn't begrudge Courfeyrac or Feuilly or Musichetta their absence. It's patently ridiculous to begrudge Enjolras being where he's needed.

Grantaire just wishes the world didn't need Enjolras more than he does right now.

"It's going to be soon." Combeferre pats his shoulder encouragingly, and Grantaire resists the urge to bite at the offending limb. "The first one's just starting to crown. You're doing fine, Grantaire, just perfect. Go ahead and sit up a little bit and just keep pushing."

Combeferre helps him sit up a bit more, back into a position where gravity is attempting to help rip him in two as well as the contractions rocking his body.

Grantaire laughs, a shaky, helpless sound, and tries to push his sweat-damp hair back from his eyes. "That's all I've been doing, pushing, but they don't seem to be too intent on being born."

"It's coming." Combeferre's hands massage Grantaire's shoulders until another contraction doubles him over, panting. "And it's going to be amazing once they're born, Grantaire, and Enjolras is going to be so incredibly happy, I'm not sure you really have any idea, and I suspect the only reason he's not here is because—"

"Combeferre!" Jehan's eager voice cuts off whatever Combeferre was going to say.

Raising his eyes as soon as the pain fades enough to make it feasible, Grantaire blinks at the poet. Jehan is spattered with blood from head to toe, and hanging onto him, staying upright apparently by sheer force of will—

" _Bahorel!_ " Grantaire surges to his feet, then drops back down as another contraction rushes through him. It's tears of joy in his eyes now, though, because the missing member of the Amis has been _found_ , he's _alive_ , he's—

Covered in blood from head to toe, barely conscious as Jehan helps him settle down next to Grantaire, but very much _alive_.

"Found you!" Bahorel slurs out the words with an almost drunken grin as he squints at Grantaire. "Found _three_ of you. Ought t' get me extra points with our fearless leader, yes?"

Jehan parts some of the bloody hair on the left side of Bahorel's face, revealing a bone-deep, angry gash. "He met Feuilly's party breaking into the last police holdout—he was apparently quite intent on breaking himself and the other remaining prisoners out, and doing a fairly good job of it. When I brought them the latest round of messages, Feuilly told me to please take him off his hands, so I present him to you."

"And I accept him gladly." Combeferre quickly turns his attention to Bahorel, poking and prodding at his scalp wound while Grantaire rides out another handful of contractions. "It's good to see you again, my friend. We were worried about you."

"Just because I got shot in the head." Bahorel tilts slowly to the side until he's leaning against Grantaire. "Not a pleasant experience, for the record. Wouldn't recommend it. Also don't recommend seeing triple. Makes it harder to fight. Not impossible, though, especially when you've got other equally motivated people with you. I think I might stay here for a few minutes, though, until the world stops changing colors."

"You definitely have a concussion, we're going to need to make sure you don't fall asleep anytime soon, and I'm going to need to shave part of your head to get this properly stitched, but… damn your luck, as long as you keep talking to us, I think you'll live." A bright smile breaks across Combeferre's face, and he pulls Bahorel into a fierce embrace. "There's actually a good chance we'll all come out of this alive."

"Unless I die— _ahh!_ " Grantaire can feel things _moving_ , shifting inside him, and it is both terrifying and reassuring because maybe it means that this is almost _over_. "Combeferre—it— _ah_!"

Combeferre reacts immediately, rearranging Grantaire's stance, once more lifting the blanket so that he can see. "Oh, we're _definitely_ getting somewhere now. Just keep pushing, Grantaire, just keep pushing… yes… yes… _here_ we go!"

Combeferre's triumphant cry is accompanied by a sudden, glorious lessening of the pressure and pain that's been threatening to rip Grantaire apart, and Grantaire sags back against Bahorel and the wall, panting in relief.

"Oh yes." Combeferre's voice is filled with awe as he pulls his arms out from under the blanket and stands slowly, a small, bloody bundle in his hands. "Grantaire, my friend, let me introduce you to your daughter."

The child is tiny, smaller than Grantaire can quite wrap his mind around, a slip of a thing for all the pain that she caused. Her body is streaked with blood, her full head of blond hair plastered down with a combination of blood and some clear fluid. Her tiny arms flail helplessly, impotently, and after a moment she begins screaming, a soft, thready sound against the background hum of the infirmary.

She looks like her father.

She looks like perfection.

Grantaire holds out his hands, uncertain, fear and awe battling for dominance. With a few deft moves Combeferre settles the child into his arms, and Grantaire stares down into the shrieking, beautiful face of his _daughter_.

"She's crying." Reaching out with one uncertain finger, Grantaire touches the child's pink, ruddy cheek. "Why is she crying?"

Jehan runs a hand through the little girl's hair. "Because the little one's aware of how beautiful and awful the world can be, having just gone from coddled and safe as she will ever be to a world of marvelous color and sound and horror."

"Jehan." Bahorel pokes at the child three times before finally managing to connect with her and tickle her tiny hand into a fist. "You would make a fine funeral orator, and I happily accede to having you arrange mine, but do remember this is her day of birth and that she's Grantaire's first child."

"And she's crying because she's hungry." Combeferre pulls the blanket down from across Grantaire's chest, baring his right nipple and the small, firm breast that has formed beneath it. "Let her eat; you'll likely not get much of a chance before—"

Grantaire whimpers as another contraction racks his body. "Oh, come _on_. Don't I get a _little_ bit of a break?"

"Apparently not. Sorry, Grantaire. It's all very individual." Combeferre tone is brisk but still with a hint of sympathy, and Grantaire is glad to have the doctor's hands there, helping Grantaire stay steady, keeping him from—gods forbid—dropping his daughter. The little girl continues to scream and kick until Combeferre places her head directly against Grantaire's nipple, at which point her tiny mouth latches on and she begins suckling enthusiastically.

Pain and pleasure, terror and absolute awe fill Grantaire's heart, but right now, with a child in his arms and his friends at his side, he thinks he can manage to weather the conflicting storm.

XXX

Their second child is a vexillum, born bald and screaming even more frantically than their daughter. He takes after Grantaire more than Enjolras, his skin darker, and Combeferre shifts the female into Bahorel's arms with Jehan overlooking so that Grantaire can hold his son.

The third child, a consurge, comes into the world even faster than his siblings, with less pain, and Grantaire allows a tired Musichetta and Bossuet, both herded over to their corner by an exasperated Joly, to take the girl while Jehan takes the vexillum. Bahorel babbles half-sensible life lessons at the child as he tickles the baby's toes, a bandage wrapped around his head while they wait for those who more desperately need surgery to be patched up.

Both male children share their sister's bright blue eyes. Combeferre warns that the eyes might change, but Grantaire hopes they don't, hopes that Enjolras' eyes will shine from all their children's faces.

"Not that I'll mind if you don't keep your eyes." Grantaire strokes his hand down his son's perfect little consurge body, too tired to be overwhelmed by the enormity of what the baby's gender will entail but not too tired to be awed by the miracle that is his existence. Settling down with a deep sigh, glad that this ordeal is finally over, he smiles at the child. "You will be beautiful no matter what, because you're _his_."

"His and yours." Combeferre's skin is almost sheet-white, his eyes surrounded by dark circles, but his smile is both satisfied and pleased as he checks once more on all three children. "Three perfect little ones, Grantaire, and you still alive, just as I promised."

"Mistake." Grantaire kisses his son's head as the child latches on to his nipple. "There must have been some mistake, because my life isn't supposed to be this— _ow_. Golden Lady, Combeferre, why's it hurting _again_?"

"Just the passing of the afterbirth. Don't—" Combeferre freezes as he lifts the blanket. "Ah, damn, I'll owe Joly a good meal. I may have been a bit premature in saying your ordeal has passed. There's—"

"Grantaire." Feuilly's tired voice immediately draws all eyes.

Grantaire's attention, once he assures himself that Feuilly seems to be relatively in one piece, is immediately arrested by the blond leaning heavily against Feuilly. Blood has soaked through Enjolras' bandage, a dark stain that drips down the bandage like bloody tears, but he is _standing_ , he is _alive_ , and he is _here_.

"It's done." Enjolras' voice is quiet, almost too quiet to be heard. "We have control of the city. The guardsmen came to our side two hours ago; the police just surrendered. We have half of the senate in custody; the rest have scattered. It's only the beginning, of course. We need to keep control over the next chaotic days… and we need to get an interim government and see about drafting a true constitution… but it's a start, and I… need to be here."

"He needs to be anywhere but at the front." Feuilly's voice is dry as he deposits Enjolras in the space that Bossuet has vacated by Grantaire. "Because watching him collapse is the _last_ thing I want to have our troops do, and I think he's just about run out of stubborn determined spirit to burn."

"Never." Enjolras' voice cracks as he stares from one of their children to another. "But I had to come back. I said I would. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be gone so long. I just…"

( _Save you save them give you a better world_ )

( _Love you love you love you_ )

"You're here now. Just in time, because apparently…" Grantaire pants out a whimpering cry, though it's easier, now, to smile through the agony. "We're going to be _very_ busy parents."

The last child comes even faster than the others, and Grantaire's not sure Enjolras is even aware of what's happening before Combeferre is placing a tiny, silent burden into his arms.

"Conscia." Enjolras stares down at the small form, his good eye wide. "So small. Smaller than all the others. And so _quiet_. Is he—"

"Healthy. Just quiet." Combeferre presses a kiss to Enjolras' forehead. "Give him a few minutes, and I'm sure he'll start crying for food as well."

"Four?" Enjolras looks up at Grantaire, wonder filling his features.

"Four." Grantaire leans against his conscia, finally feeling… complete. Calm. _Whole_. Safe. "Female, vexillum, consurge, and the world's tiniest conscia. He really is smaller than his siblings."

"One of each." Enjolras slowly, carefully shifts the child so that it's nestled against both himself and Grantaire. "All the genders, united, just as all the people have been united today. Grantaire… this is amazing."

"It is." Grantaire glances around at their assembled, exhausted, smiling friends. "Today has been absolutely amazing."

"We'll make their world better." Enjolras' good eye is already drifting closed. "We'll give them a world where they can all be safe, all be happy. We'll bleed so they don't have to."

All children bleed. All _people_ bleed. Grantaire knows that.

He's certain that Enjolras knows that, too, and so he doesn't say the words, because he knows what Enjolras means.

Their children will not bleed like Grantaire has bled.

Their children will not be looked on as lesser, inferior, defective, or useless because of a quirk of their birth. They will not have their future dictated to them by those who don't even know them.

Their children will not cut themselves on the sharp words that others say, the words that worm their way down into the soul and take up residence, forever tainting the hearts that they touch.

Their children will have a better world.

Grantaire will have a better world.

( _I love you I protect you I love you_ )

"I love you, too." Grantaire brushes his lips against Enjolras' temple, allowing his own eyes to drift closed.

There are a thousand and one things that could still go wrong. There is every possibility that he will wake and everything will have fallen apart, that the tide of the revolution will turn again, that the interim government will fail, that the inevitable negotiations will see them giving concessions that they'd rather not.

But they have their friends surrounding them. They have their allies defending them. They have each other, Enjolras warm against Grantaire's side.

And Enjolras has done all he can to give Grantaire and their children a bright new world, a better future than any they could have seen before.

And really, who could ask for a greater birthday present than that?


End file.
